


The Witcher 2 - Assassins of Kings (A Fanfiction adaptation)

by TheRealC2



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 99,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25884187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealC2/pseuds/TheRealC2
Summary: A full-length adaptation of the game, "The Witcher 2 - Assassins of Kings." When Geralt of Rivia is blamed for a crime he failed to prevent, he sets out on a quest to prove his innocence and apprehend the true culprit. The ensuing journey leads him into a web of intrigue and power-politics, with the fate of kings and nations hanging in the balance.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. By the King's Will

**Author's Note:**

> As a fan of both the fantastic book series by Andrzej Sapkowski and the wildly popular game series by CD Project Red, I set out to bring the stories from The Witcher 2 and 3 to a narrative form. This is the first volume in that endeavor - a full novelization of the game's storyline. Whenever possible, I included original dialogue from the game, along with a few discretely hidden easter eggs from other franchises.
> 
> The game forces players onto one of two mutually-exclusive paths; I chose the one I felt gave a better narrative flow, which, unfortunately, made it hard to include a few characters and side quests from the other path without shoehorning them in awkwardly. I'm not a fan of shoehorning, nor of plot holes. I did my best to avoid or remedy both whenever possible.
> 
> With that said, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I intend to have Volume Two: The Wild Hunt finished by the end of the year.
> 
> -C. Ridley Benbrook

Six years have passed since that memorable day when the Northern

Kingdoms, their forces united, defeated the hosts of Nilfgaard in open battle at Brenna. Famine and disease reign in all the North. Elves and dwarves inhabit ghettos. In ever increasing numbers, they flee to the forests to join Scoia’tael units, regarded as bandits and renegades by some; as freedom fighters by others.

In Temeria, an unidentified assassin attempts to murder King Foltest. The killer dies at the hands of Geralt of Rivia, a professional monster slayer.

A month passes.

On the banks of the Pontar River, Foltest’s army is victorious once more, ending civil strife in the country. Yet the price of this triumph proves immense.

———————————————————

Thunder rolls in the background, as a relentless downpour of rain blurs the witcher’s vision. Or is it blood? Perhaps both? Somehow, he cannot tell.

_Run. Run. Run!_

His mind has no room to ponder such banalities. There is only one singular priority. Escape. His lungs burn as he gasps for air, stumbling over fallen branches and withered vines as he climbs ever higher up the mountain’s slope.

The hooves and whinnies of horses echo not too far in the distance, mingling with the rumbling thunder in a disorienting haze. His pursuers are gaining ground.

A sharp pain throbs beneath his ribs. His mind commands his arms to clutch the wound, but they do not respond.

_Run! Survive! Run!_

His weary legs finally fail him, leaving him face-down in the drenched underbrush.

Minutes pass. Or are they hours? Again, he cannot be certain.

“Geralt? Is that you?” The voices are foreign, but feel as though they should be familiar. He strains his neck to see two shadowy figures descending the slopes toward him.

“I don’t believe it!” another, lower voice echoes in amazement, closer now. “It can’t be-“

“It is,” the first voice answers. “Quick - bring the horses.”

———————————————————

Geralt awoke with a jolt, rattling the chains which tugged tightly against the shackles on his wrists, keeping his arms spread in a perpetual “T” position. He winced and groaned as the roughly-finished edges of the iron circlets grated against the skin below his palms, removing whatever scabs may have formed while he was unconscious and summoning a renewed oozing of bright crimson.

_The same dream. Again_ , he mused to himself, closing his eyes and trying unsuccessfully to return to the warbled memory that faded into a collection of flashes, too ambiguous to inspect mentally. As miserable as the dream was, he preferred it to the dank, malodorous prison where he presently languished.

“Come on, sixes, daddy needs you…” a prison guard muttered, shaking a pair of dice in a small leather cup. He was completely indifferent to Geralt’s condition as he sat across from a burly, mustached fellow at a modest, candlelit table. The dice rattled against the rough wooden surface, eliciting an aspirated curse from the hopeful guard and a hearty laugh from his competitor.

“HaHA! Twenty orens to grandad,” the elder one gloated, gleefully scraping the coins from the table as the loser rose to his feet and stepped toward the iron grate separating him from the witcher.

“Oi! He’s awake,” the guard said, amused, opening the creaky cell door and stepping in closely enough that the aroma of onions still lingering on his breath mixed with the inescapable hints of festering wounds and piss to produce something truly heinous in the witcher’s nostrils.

“Are you daft? Don’t go in there!” The mustached one protested.

“Shut it!” The guard rebutted dismissively. “He’s in chains, can’t do a thing. Am I right, master Geralt?”

Geralt could do nothing but flinch, as the guard’s fist struck him in the temple, bringing an instant return of deep, black nothingness.

If only it could last.

“Look - sleeping beauty’s awake again!” The guard piped up, interrupting what seemed to be an argument about rolling dice. Geralt had no sense of the passage of time in this place, especially with the frequent lapses in consciousness produced by the guards’ merciless beatings. This time, they both entered his cell to exact punishment

“Monster slayer, my arse! The mustached one scoffed, as he delivered blows just below the ribs. “A regular whoreson’s what he is. I heard witchers all start out as roadside orphans taken in by mages. Mages who experiment on ‘em.”

The other one chuckled as he waited his turn. “Folk say they plough witches, come the equinox. That’s how they get those spooky eyes.”

“Enough!” A commanding baritone voice barked, as a stubble-faced man stepped in behind the guards. His metal belt clinked with each step, rustled by the rich,blue and white striped wool coat beneath it, which differentiated him from the fungible soldiers tasked with monitoring the prison. “I’ll not learn anything from the prisoner if he’s unable to speak. Take him down and put him in the interrogation room.”

Geralt focused his less-swollen eye on the newcomer, pupils dilating in surprise.

“I thought you died,” he said in his usual, gravelly tone.

The stubble-faced man looked him in the eyes, pausing for a moment. “I’m not so easy to kill,” he replied, aggressively disdainful.

Geralt waited in solitude for several minutes in the stone-block room, relishing the freedom of movement restored to his shoulders. He was hesitant to rotate them too liberally - each adjustment sent tremors of pain across his back, which was striped like a Zerrikanian horse with deep bruises and lacerations. He heard a single set of footsteps approach from the long, stone hallway, so he wasn’t startled at the sudden flood of light as the heavy, barred door flung open.

The man in the blue-striped coat stepped in, closing the door behind him and placing his hands on the thick wooden table that separated him from his prisoner. Though he stood at an average height, he had the build and demeanor of a soldier, and managed to exude an intimidating presence. His tanned, ruddy face showed signs of wear beyond what would be expected from his thirty or so years of life - years that had been wisely spent, from all appearances. He clearly had a great deal of authority. The man peered at Geralt for a long moment, then extended his gloved right hand.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he said, cordial but cold. “Vernon Roche.”

“I’d shake your hand if I could,” Geralt replied dryly, looking directly into the man’s coal-black eyes. The dark circles surrounding them gave the impression that he hadn’t slept much in the past three days.

“Ah, Geralt. Such unflappable nonchalance. Is that another skill they teach you witchers, or are you just an ass by nature?” He heaved a sigh and sat down, shouting a command loudly enough to be heard down the hallway. “Ves!”

Moments later, the heavy door swung open again. A short-haired woman came to a halt in the doorway, backlit as she awaited instructions.

“Unshackle him,” Roche commanded. The woman obeyed without a word, leaving the room once she was finished and latching the door behind her.

Geralt absentmindedly rotated and massaged his wrists as Roche waited for the woman to be out of earshot.

“You will tell me everything you remember,” he said, leaning forward over clenched fists. “The entire assault… and all that happened in the monastery.”

“And if I refuse?” Geralt asked, never breaking eye contact.

“Then I shall have to beat you… more _thoroughly_. I’ve commanded the special forces for a while. I’ve gotten quite good at beating others. But then, you’re a witcher. You’d endure much.”

“You’d better believe it,” Geralt said, folding his arms.

“Worst case scenario - you’d suffer through it, then go back to your cell. Then tomorrow, they’ll publicly gut you, skin you, and hang you.”

“Just like that? For nothing?”

“No. For Temeria.”

“Downright praiseworthy.” Geralt drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Where should I start?”

“It was a long day. I wish to hear the important bits.”

“Fine. Just so we’re clear on this - I was not eager to go into battle, but Foltest is not someone you refuse…”

———————————————————

_6am, the morning of the battle_

Geralt woke with a start, wiping beads of sweat from his face as he sat up and gave his heart rate time to settle back down. His sleep had been increasingly disturbed by dreams so vivid and intense that he’d suggested sleeping alone, for fear of what he might do while unconscious.

Triss would have nothing of the sort.

He sighed deeply and turned to look at her. In his haste to sit up, he’d pulled the sheet off of her, exposing her exquisite figure to the narrow band of sunlight that snuck in through the heavy fabric walls of their tent. A smile crept onto his face as he took a quiet moment to admire her beauty, uninhibited by trivial things such as clothing. He slowly reached out his hand, gently brushing a few chestnut locks back from her cheek, then running his fingers along their glistening, flowing waves over her shoulders and coming to rest on the small of her back.

She inhaled sharply, awakened by the witcher’s touch, which always produced a mild, tingling sensation, and looked up, squinting in the morning light and meeting his eyes. Without a word, the sorceress rolled over, reaching out to pull his face toward hers, as he ran his tingly hand across her bare hip. Their lips locked with such sudden intensity that she let out a giggle, wrapping her leg around him. Things were progressing in a familiar pattern, and likely would have resulted in another blissful morning, had they not been interrupted by a blinding flood of light.

“Witcher, sir? Are you up-“ a young, slightly rotund soldier blurted, before cutting himself off mid-sentence. The man blushed deeply at the sight of the sorceress, who shrieked and whirled around, grasping frantically for the sheet, then wrapping it around her.

Geralt sighed heavily and looked at the soldier with a glare that could’ve melted him to a pool of jelly, but the young man didn’t notice. The full measure of his attention was fixated on the now-covered sorceress. After an awkward pause, he cleared his throat, finally gathering the courtesy to cast his eyes at the ground. “H-his majesty, King of Temeria, Pontar, Mahakam and Sodden… senior protector of Brugge… summons Master Geralt to appear before him.”

“Tell him I’ll be there shortly,” Geralt replied, stroking his forehead in frustration.

“Sorry to intrude, m’lady, but the king-“

“We _heard_ you,” Geralt interrupted curtly.

“A… pleasant day to you, m’lady,… witcher,” he said sheepishly, slowly backing out of the tent while keeping his gaze transfixed on Triss, who now sat, legs crossed, behind a chair back.

“Stupid war,” Geralt huffed once the soldier was gone, walking to the other side of the large, ornate tent toward the dresser. “Could’ve been a beautiful morning.”

“A war can never be stupid when waged by _your_ king,” Triss replied, folding her arms and leaning on the chair.

Geralt pulled a tunic over his head as he continued his complaint. “They’ve cleared the forest. They’re pillaging nearby villages, and they’ll soon be murdering each other en masse. Why? Because Foltest is having a spat with the mother of his bastard twins. This is a really stupid war, Triss.”

“Bastards or not, the twins are still royal blood. The La Valettes are an old Temerian dynasty, and the mix is sufficient basis to vie for the crown. History has know stranger contenders…”

“Which doesn’t change the fact-“

“I know,” she interrupted, speaking calmly, though growing slightly frustrated. “Foltest and the northern monarchs are neither the smartest, nor the most refined, but they’re _kings_ … one of whom, we serve. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Oh, believe me, I do,” he said, shaking his head as he fastened the bandolier that tied his scabbards to his back. “I’ll see Foltest, as summoned, protect him, if need be… but once the castle falls, we leave.” He delivered his words with the kind of finality which left no room for rebuttal.

Triss elected to change the subject. “Last night you were so… _restless_. Did you dream of the Wild Hunt again?”

“Mmhmm.”

“It’s tied to your memory, that much is clear. Has it changed at all? Any progress? You know, you can-“

“One of the scouts swears he saw a dragon,” Geralt interjected, also wishing to change the subject, “down by the river. Claims he ran into a Scoia’tael unit. That would’ve been it, if the dragon hadn’t swooped down. The elves were supposed to have bowed in prayer, and he escaped.”

“A dragon? In the midst of all these people? _Please_. You don’t really believe that, do you? And besides, I thought your code prevented you from hunting dragons…”

“It does. And you’re right - it’s probably not a dragon. Probably a forktail, or a slyzard… maybe even an overgrown wyvern.”

“The scout ran into some elves and scurried away,” Triss said dismissively. “That’s how that story begins and ends.”

“Still…” Geralt persisted, tightening his belt and stretching gloves. “Better to be prepared. Being caught off-guard is what gets people killed. I wanna know what we’re dealing with. Speaking of, I forgot to ask you… the unlucky assassin - how’d the autopsy go? Took them long enough…”

Triss sighed, rolling her sparkling blue eyes slightly as she brushed a tendril of hair from her face. “It was a nightmare. The king’s medics poked around at the body like amateurs for weeks. By the time they let me see it… well, there wasn’t much left to inspect.”

“Damn. Were you able to learn anything?”

Her manicured eyebrows creased ever so slightly in concern - a gesture that most would’ve missed altogether. Geralt, however, knew Triss’s face better than a newborn knows his mother’s. When he showed up outside Kaer Morhen half-dead with no memory, it was Triss who the witchers summoned. It was her care that nursed him back to health, her voice that soothed the maddening confusion in his head, her face he saw when he regained his senses. For the past six months, Triss had been Geralt’s only constant in a whirlwind of confusion and change. He knew her well - well enough to know when something was bothering her.

“Triss?”

“His pupils… they weren’t natural. They could adjust to light. He could probably see in the dark as well as you. I couldn’t put an age on him, and-“

“Wait a minute - are you telling me he was a _witcher_?”

“I’m saying _I don’t know_. Like I told you, there wasn’t much left of him to go on, but think about it - he snuck past the guards, nearly killed Foltest… and you… we can’t be sure, I’m just telling you what the autopsy showed.”

Now it was Geralt’s turn to emote concern. “Who else have you told?”

“No one,” she said emphatically, her tone colored with surprise. She stood and walked to him, placing her hand on his forearm and looking up at him reassuringly. “I know what kind of trouble that would put you in. Foltest has grown paranoid, and for good reason. First the attempt on him, then Demavend… the witcher may play the hero now, but masters can be as fickle as the colts they ride.”

“Thanks,” he said, scowling. “Makes me feel so much better.”

“Geralt… we’re in this together. I may not be on the battlefield, but I’ve got your back. You can trust me.”

He pulled her in tightly, burying his face in her hair and drawing in the mesmerizing scent for one more moment. “I know. And I do. Now, time to look to our lustful king and his stupid war.”

———————————————————

King Foltest was in the company of a nilgaardian official when Geralt reached him, dressed in an ornate chainmail coat and crested with a scaled-down, though still ostentatious, golden crown. He was considered by many to be quite handsome in his youth, but twenty years of reigning a nation with constantly-contested borders had creased his face with lines of fatigue. As with every other monarch Geralt had encountered, patience was not one of Foltest’s virtues.

“Finally!” He groaned, as Geralt approached. “Traitors of the realm boil tar on the walls, while you _dally_ with the royal advisor.”

“How may I assist you, sire?” Geralt asked, deeming it unwise to offer any words in his defense.

“We’ll mount an assault today, and you’ll be by my side. Follow me, gentlemen. Let’s not keep the traitors waiting…”

Before they had taken three steps, an explosion of wood and dirt erupted nearby, knocking all three off their feet. Geralt rushed to Foltest’s side, relieved to find him intact.

“You assured me we were out of range!” The Nilfgaardian groaned angrily, as he labored to get to his feet again. The little hair which his head still retained was white as snow.

“From the archers, yes,” Foltest said matter-of-factly, utterly unfazed. “That was the bolt from a ballista, excellency. Reinforced with iron and strung with horse hair. In the right conditions, it can hit a target from a mile away. A deadly and _very costly_ weapon. However, it has one fatal flaw. The recoil is so violent that it’s damn near impossible to hit the same place twice.”

“I had no idea Your Highness was such a learned military engineer,” the Nilfgaardian - who had yet to be introduced - remarked, as the three of them resumed walking toward the front lines.

“I’m not,” Foltest replied casually. “I only know because I gave those ballistae to the baroness two years ago for her birthday.”

Geralt closed his eyes hard, resisting the urge to slap his palm to his forehead. _Stupid, stupid war_.

Falling behind the pace slightly, the Nilgaardian leaned in to speak to the witcher over the din of the battle preparations around them.

“Master Geralt, allow me to introduce myself,” he said in a strongly accented, though proper-sounding speech. “I am Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen, imperial ambassador to the Temerian royal court. I, ugh… wish to converse with you once the storm of battle has subsided.”

“Forgive me, excellency, but I plan to leave the royal court as soon as possible.”

“Might I know why?” Shilard pried.

Geralt paused for a moment, aware of the need to be parsimonious with his reply. Politicians had a way of taking carelessly-spoken words and turning them against the speaker.“Too often they take me for someone I’m not.”

Hitting a dead end with Geralt, the ambassador turned his line of questioning back to Foltest.

“Forgive my candor, Your Majesty, but I must ask: What fate awaits the royal bastards when…”

“They’re my _children_ ,” Foltest growled, spinning around and pointing a finger in the face of the ambassador. “If I hear ‘bastard’ one more time, someone will die. Painfully.”

Geralt took note to strike the word from his vocabulary.

“Your grace, forgive me,” Shilard persisted,” but the laws of succession are perfectly clear.”

“Piss on the law!” Foltest retorted. “I’ll change them, if need be. Above all, I’ll not allow a band of treacherous barons to use my children as their banner.”

“Your Majesty is completely within his rights,” Shilard said placatingly.

“Thanks to Geralt of Rivia,” Foltest said, “my daughter, Adda, is alive and well, the wife of Radovid of Redania.”

“With respect, Majesty, I am well-versed in the marriage arrangement of _all_ the northern monarchs.”

“I fear you are not,” Foltest fired back, his every word taking on an aggressive tone. “The midget king merely awaits my demise.”

“I am certain King Radovid of Redania wishes your majesty a long and healthy life,” Shilard answered, feigning sincerity poorly.

“The old families will never accept a Redanian on my throne. Adda will have to content herself with Redania.”

“I… understand,” the ambassador said with a sigh. “The issue of succession remains unresolved. Your Grace, I request your permission to retire to… a _safer_ distance from the violence.”

“You have it,” the king replied coldly. Continuing on toward the sounds of the battle, he addressed Geralt again. “Black Ones in my camp before a battle - what has the world come to? Nothing would make me happier than returning his shriveled head to Emhyr in a sack… Eh, but Triss Merigold insisted I be patient and courteous. Was I?”

“I couldn’t have done it better myself, sire,” Geralt lied, aware of Foltest’s fragile ego and volatile temper.

The king gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Ha! I always knew you were one of us. And bugger what folk say. At least _one_ witcher is an honest man. Tell me, have you learned anything about the assassin? Now that Demavend’s been assassinated, it would seem the one you stopped wasn’t working alone.”

“Nothing new, sire,” Geralt replied without hesitation, thankful that witchers were famously hard to read. “A month’s passed and we don’t know any more than when we began. This investigation’s going nowhere.”

“We’ll learn the culprit eventually, it’s just a matter of time. But that is a job for another day. And… another man. I want you at my side today. After that, you may go wherever you please.”

“Thank you, sire.”

Geralt followed the king past line after line of fortified ditches and siege weapons, all the way to the front of the battle, where they entered and began to ascend a huge wooden siege tower.

“You know, witcher,” he said over his shoulder as they climbed, “I’m prepared to forgive Louisa. All she need do is bow before her king.”

“Very noble of you,” he replied flatly.

“Are you mocking me? Ah, never mind. I’m certain Louisa will realize her mistakes. After all, children should have a mother. And besides that, it’s not really her fault, when you think about it. It’s those damned noblemen whispering in her ear. She and I had a falling out, and the next thing you know, they’re filling her head with lies, telling her the awful, tyrannical king is going to come and take her children from her. The ironic thing in all this? That’s exactly what _will_ happen, _because_ of them. Ploughing fools, all of them! I will have my revenge on them today, witcher. It is time. Shall we?”

———————————————————

“That tower was ridiculous,” Geralt recounted to Roche, chuckling scornfully.

“It was designed to break the rebels’ morale,” the special forces commander said defensively.

“It was _designed_ to give a bunch of lords and lordlings a ride so they could pompously stride on top of the walls, while the real army fought and died below them in the shit and piss-filled streets.”

“Come, now, witcher. Surely you’re not so naive as to be surprised at such things. This is the way of the world, like it or not. And as enthralling as it is to listen to you opine on the morality of war, I’d rather you tell me what the hell happened when you stepped _off_ of that tower.”

“Any chance I could get a cup of water? My throat’s getting dry from all this talking.”

“Continue. Now.”

“Fine. Things actually went smoothly once we reached the wall. King’s men did the dirty work, we walked in afterward and skewered what was left. Nothing really noteworthy to report… until we reached Aryan La Valette.”

———————————————————

“Fall back! Fall _back_ , dammit!” Foltest growled, unheeded as he watched another line of soldiers break like a wave over rocks, cut down by a veritable wall of arrows. The archers atop the tower were well-shielded and supplied - sacking it would take more time and manpower than the king presently had at his disposal. The problem was, Aryan La Valette stood atop that tower, and as long as he did, there would be no cessation of hostilities.

Despite the protestations of his subordinates, Foltest moved forward to within earshot of the tower, calling out to his opponent.

“Surrender, Aryan! You’ll be treated with honor.”

The legitimate son of the baroness was more a youth than a man, still in his upper teens, with straight, black hair that fell just to his chin, swirling in the brisk wind atop the cylindrical embattlement. As the heir to the castle and surrounding lands, he inspired fierce loyalty in his troops, even if it was for a doomed cause.

“Honor?” He shouted back. “Oh - like the honor shown to my mother? Go plough yourself, ‘king.’” He gestured crudely, as if his comment were not sufficiently provocative enough, then stepped back and commanded his archers to ready for another volley.

“Gods dammit,” Foltest huffed, as he returned to a safe distance from the wall, coming to a halt next to Geralt. “We’ll be at it ‘till dark at this rate. I don’t trust those blasted barons with my children. We’ve got to hurry this along.”

Geralt had a better idea, but he didn’t want to share it. After all, he was neutral, as are all witchers, in principal. He was firmly against taking sentient life, unless self defense required it. He was also firmly against senseless _wastes_ of life, though, and after yet another wave of men fell to Aryan’s archers, he relented to his conscience.

“I could scale the wall,” he offered, sizing up the roughly-stacked stone building. “Maybe if I can talk face to face, the boy would listen to reason.”

“Yes… or maybe his archers will turn you into a pin cushion,” Foltest replied, stroking his chin. “He’s a good lad, but his temper runs hot.”

“You underestimate my abilities, your grace.”

The king narrowed his eyes as he considered the offer.

“So this is the point where I’m to play the ‘witcher’ card, is that it? They say your kind can deflect an arrow mid-flight, but what about five at once?”

“I’ll take my chances,” Geralt sighed, tightening his gloves absentmindedly. “Have your archers provide a distraction. I’ll come back down with the keys to the keep.”

“And if he refuses?”

Geralt broke protocol, looking the king directly in the eyes. “He won’t.”

The witcher was right - the climb was, relatively speaking, easy. His genetically-enhanced agility and strength enabled him to scale the entire thirty foot height undetected, shocking Aryan’s men as he bounded onto the wooden deck of the tower, hands raised in a gesture of non-confrontation.

In a flash, a dozen arrowheads drew back, setting off a chorus of groans and cracks as bow strings stretched with anticipation. Aryan waved them off.

“Wait! I know this man,” he shouted, gesturing at the archers to lower their weapons. “The famed Geralt of Rivia, at the behest of Foltest. You’ve fallen low, witcher. Am I to assume you’re here to kill me?”

“I’m here to spare you,” Geralt said, lowering his hands. “There’s been enough slaughter today. Surrender now, and you and your men will be treated with honor.”

The young man scoffed. “And what guarantee is there that his _merciful_ Majesty won’t cut us down to the last?”

“None.”

Aryan leaned in, eyes ablaze with defiant passion. “Foltest defiled my mother. Now he colludes with Nilfgaard. You’d have me lay down my arms, and my ideals, for that slob?”

“That ‘slob’ has an army. You have a few brave men, and your honor. In time, he’ll simply wear you down, starve you out, smoke you out… it’s a lost cause.”

Aryan turned to face his men. “Hear that, chaps? The King sends a witcher, and just like that, we are to surrender, forgetting the very nature of honor and pride! We must choose - shame, or a witcher’s sword. Is that how you will live? Will you bow your heads before Foltest?”

“Never!” They shouted, predictably.

“You heard them, witcher,” Aryan said, cocking his head with shrugged shoulders.

Geralt sighed in frustration. “Don’t be a fool! This is no game. Your men don’t need to die. Surrender and the King _will_ show mercy.”

“My mother has seen enough of this king’s mercy!” Aryan shouted.

“And if you deprive your men of life… for the sake of _your_ honor,” Geralt replied, lowering his voice and leaning in, “you’re no better than he is.”

The young leader was nearly in tears with anger, voice cracking as the emotions began to boil over. “You don’t understand! He made my mother a harlot, then denied her before all the realm!”

“True enough… but no massacre, no misguided heroism will change that. I have no desire to kill you, but if you leave me no other choice, I will. You and every man on this tower. Drop. Your. Weapon.”

Aryan’s lip quivered as he sized up the witcher. He breathed a long sigh, and looked down, shaking his head.

“If anything should happen to my mother… any harm… I will find you and kill you.”

———————————————————

“So, Aryan La Valette laid down his sword without so much as one swing of yours? Well, well…” Roche said, mockingly. “I didn’t think you were the type to have such a way with words.”

“You sound surprised. Have you not spoken to him about it?” Geralt asked.

“Briefly. Just before they took him off to the torture chamber. The hard luck of a traitor.”

“No worse than the hard luck of a soldier of Temeria,” Geralt replied evenly. “Tell me - what happened to the dragon?”

“It destroyed half the castle,” Roche answered, eyes gazing at the table unfocused, “broiled men alive in their plate armor, and then just… left.”

“It just flew off? Where?”  
“East. Toward Aedirn.”

“Do you think the Aedirnians were involved?”

“At this point, I don’t much care where the dragon came from or where it went. What I _do_ want is for you to stop changing the subject. Continue your account.”

———————————————————

For the second time in one day, Foltest found himself at the base of a tower, shouting.

“Aryan La Valette has surrendered the castle,” he explained again, repeating his words slowly and deliberately with obvious impatience. “Open the gate.”

“And the young baron lives?” The voice from the top questioned.

“Yes, yes, he’s alive and well,” Foltest answered. “I’m not spiteful.”

Geralt cast a knowing glance at Triss, who had finally caught up to him and the king. Even dressed for battle, her makeup was expertly applied, a fact that never went unnoticed by the witcher’s eyes.

“Open this gate at once! Bow before your king, and I shall show you mercy,” Foltest commanded.

Geralt shook his head. “Looks like we’re headed for another stalemate,” he said quietly, leaning his upper body toward Triss until their shoulders touched. They watched in silence for a moment before he continued. “We _could_ head back to the tent. You know… they camp oughta be nice and empty by now…”

“Very tempting,” she replied with an audible smile, “but it looks like your ‘stalemate’ is about to be resolved…”

As they spoke, special forces in blue striped uniforms snuck up behind the resistance atop the tower, unceremoniously shoving them over the edge to an unsightly collision with the stone pavement below.

“There goes my lunch break,” Geralt complained with a sigh. “Back to playing babysitter.”

“A little patience, witcher,” Triss said suggestively. “I’ll give you a much better assignment once the battle’s done.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he replied, grinning as he patted her rear. “Especially since-“

Geralt cut off mid-sentence, tilting his head slightly to better attune his hearing.

Triss was instantly concerned. “What is it-“

“Something’s coming,” Geralt muttered, taking off toward the king. “Your Majesty! Take cover!”

Foltest, who had stepped back from the tower to avoid the falling bodies, took off running toward it, quickly joined by his bodyguard and royal advisor. In the distance, a low, throaty roar was now loud enough for untrained ears to hear it, and before the group was halfway across the stone bridge to the tower, they saw the source of the disturbance.

A billow of fire poured from the mouth of the beast, which racedtoward them more swiftly than a stallion, carried by huge, veiny wings which stretched the span of a small warship.

“Dragon!” The nearby soldiers shouted, nearly in unison, before their throats were silenced by the raging hot breath emanating from the flying monster, believed by most to be merely a legend.

Geralt, Triss and Foltest narrowly escaped a fiery death, taking cover behind one of the arched supports of the bridge. Not to be easily thwarted, the dragon circled around in a wide arc and came barreling toward them, parallel with the bridge. Wooden gears groaned as the special forces members behind the gate labored feverishly to turn the lift crank. There was no time to allow then to finish. With a swish of her hand and a shouted spell, Triss sent a fireball of her own forward, splintering the gate to the tower like a rock through a window, and providing another narrow escape from the dragon. Stone chips and dust began to rain on their heads as the arched stone structure above them rumbled, weakened to the point of failure by the concussion of Triss’s blast. The sorceress acted quickly, pushing back on the failing stonework with telekinetic energy.

“Run!” She said, gritting her teeth in exertion. “I can’t… hold it for much longer.”

“Triss-“

“Go, Geralt!” She shouted, locking eyes with him. “I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t have time to argue. Geralt took Foltest by the hand, leading him out the other side of the tower and into a large courtyard, crisscrossed with arched walkways.

The dragon quickly located them and resumed its pursuit, spewing flames haphazardly across the manicured shrubs and fish ponds, but missing widely. Geralt and the king stuck to the covered pathways, darting back and forth among them as they made their way toward the residential district on the other side. In time, the dragon grew weary of the search, and flew off to burn and maim somewhere else. Once Geralt deemed it safe to come out, he and the king continued through the small iron gate which led to the houses and non-military structures of the compound.

Another blue-striped commando came running to them as they approached, giving the king a report on the battle. With most of the strongholds of the castle already compromised, the rebels had holed themselves up in the monastery, where Foltest’s children were believed to be. The king groaned heavily upon hearing the news, and for the first time all day, Geralt saw fear and concern on his face.

“Witcher, I must ask another favor of you,” he said, squinting in the late-afternoon light, which shone through the dust and dirt kicked up by the battle in visible beams. “Anais and Boussy… we believe they’re being held somewhere in the monastery. A full-on assault is completely out of the question. You must find a way in there. Scale a wall, block some arrows… do whatever it is that you do.”

“Of course I’m at Your Majesty’s service,” Geralt replied, “but surely you don’t believe the barons would harm the children…”

“Louisa? No. But those fiends who have soured her against me… they may be dull-witted, but eventually the idea will strike them to use the children as hostages. I cannot allow that. Do you understand? I shall not.”

“I understand, Your Majesty.”

“Good. Then make haste. Find out where they are and take me to them, and I shall make you the wealthiest witcher this realm has ever seen.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Geralt said, turning his face away before grimacing and releasing a long, silent sigh. _I’m not a hired assassin_ , he complained internally. _Stupid war. Stupid king. The sooner I’m free of him, the better._

Half an hour later, the witcher was sloshing through the village sewer, cursing his luck with every step. The muck, which was oppressively odorous, clung to his clothing in droplets, which, nudged along by gravity, eventually matriculated all the way down his boots, and lodged themselves between his toes.

“Never again,” he muttered, trying in vain to wiggle his toes free of the slimy refuse as he crouched to avoid scraping his back on the low ceiling. “I’m done with monarchs. Never again.”

The tunnel eventually came to an end a dozen feet or so below the outer wall of the monastery, which sat high atop a bluff facing the Pontar river.

Despite the urgency of his mission, Geralt paused a moment at the end of the tunnel to inhale fresh air again. As he did, he noticed something out of place below. A few hundred yards upstream, a small boat was moored on the far side of the river. Onboard the modest vessel were a handful of Scoia’tael - elven renegades who branded themselves as freedom fighters. Geralt took note of the oddity, studying faces with his hawklike vision. He believed in a good many things - curses, spirits, demigods, even fate - but he did not believe in coincidences. He resolved to pull that thread of investigation later. If any harm came to the royal bastards somewhere in the monastery above him, it wouldn’t just be the barons who lost their heads.

The bluff face was easier to scale than the tower wall, and less closely guarded. Geralt moved across the courtyard and through a window into the main cathedral of the monastery without attracting attention. Inside, however, was another story. Congregated together in the dark, stained-glass-lit room were nine men, eight of whom were armed. The moment his feet hit the marble floor, they began to encroach on his position, swords and axes drawn. He lifted his hands, as he had done atop Aryan La Valette’s tower, hoping to parlay his way out of the situation without adding to the day’s staggering amount of bloodshed.

“Listen!” He said gruffly, backpedaling slowly as the men crept forward. “I’m not here to fight you, I’m here to warn you. The king has-“

“Yeeeeeaaaaaaaaaa!” One the the soldiers cut him off, heaving a hatchet right at the witcher’s head. He reacted in a snap, bending out of the way and knocking the weapon off its trajectory with the back of his spiked gauntlet as it rotated end over end. There was silence for a breath of a moment, as the iron axe head clanked against the smooth floor, sending echoes reverberating through the large, column-filled room.

Geralt exhaled sharply and cursed foully as he drew his sword. And then the silence was drowned in a myriad of sounds. The clinking of plate mail boots rushing forward. The war cries and curses of fatally overconfident solders. The swish of a witcher’s leather armor bending and dodging in impossibly acrobatic pirouettes. The juicy cleaving of a jugular by a finely-sharpened steel sword. The patter of expertly placed leather boot soles which dodged lumbering counterattacks. The crunch of that same sword removing an arm at the bicep, then a hand below the wrist, then opening the bowels of a third opponent from hip to hip.

The witcher, who as a matter of preference, avoided taking human life whenever possible, rolled out of the cluster of soldiers, rising just in time to parry an overhead strike by a two-handed sword, seamlessly sliding his blade along the inside of the attacker’s arm, showering him with warm blood. A quick hand gesture of Aard sent the remaining soldiers stumbling backward, slipping on the floor, now slick with blood, and onto their backs. With deft, coordinated moments, he passed through the pile, slashing throats and arteries like a macabre dance routine, until all the combatants were either dead, or headed to the afterlife shortly. Geralt heaved a sigh, shaking his head, and wiped the blood from his eyes. He didn’t have even a moment of respite.

“Murderer!” A shrill, nasally male voice accused from across the room. “You beast! You wicked… wretched…”

A priest moved toward the blood-soaked warrior, eyes wide in shock and horror.

“I mean you no harm,” Geralt said, impossibly calm after such an intense battle. “I just need to know where the children are.”

“You… y-y-you…” the priest stammered, shaking a bony finger at the witcher. “You have shed blood in the Forefather’s holy temple. You have defiled this sacred space.”

“I’d rather not shed any _more_ blood today,” he said, listening to make sure reinforcements weren’t incoming. “I’m here at the king’s request, to ensure Anais and Boussy are returned to him safely. Just tell me where they are, and you can go free.”

“I shan’t tell you a thing, you wretch! You mutant. Vile spawn of hell! A thousand curses upon you! Begone!”

Geralt had no desire to argue with the zealous cleric. He discretely formed the Sign of Axii, speaking in a calm monotone. “You’ll tell me where the children are, and guide me to them.”

“What is this, sorcery?” The man, clearly unaffected by the Sign, exclaimed, forming some kind of religious sign of his own. “You shall never learn of it! I shan’t-“

Geralt interrupted his rebuttal with the hilt of his sword, thrusting it against the face of the priest with such force that it knocked him off his feet.

“I tried asking nicely,” he said through clenched teeth, leaning over the wounded man menacingly. “Don’t push your luck, priest.”

The man spit blood and a few teeth onto the marble floor, wiping his mouth with trembling hands. “In the library,” he said sheepishly, reaching into his robe and producing a brass keychain. He feebly held it above his head, wincing as the witcher snatched up. “They are unharmed, in the care of a monk. D-dont kill me. Don’t…”

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Geralt said, wiping the blood from his sword and replacing it in the scabbard. “A word to the wise - leave this place now, and take anyone who values their life with you.”

The priest scrambled to his feet, slipping in an awkward, frantic escape that resembled a foal on a frozen lake. Geralt walked calmly out through the front door of the cathedral and unlocked the reinforced gate at the entrance to the courtyard. The king, who had been watching the gate from a distance with apprehension, approached swiftly.

“Gods, witcher! You look like a savage… and smell like a latrine. Please tell me you’ve good news.”

“Anais and Boussy are being kept in the library, probably the top floor. Here’s the key.”

“Well, come on, then,” he said, waving off his military escort and walking past Geralt into the courtyard. “I wish to retrieve them. Accompany me.”

The wind picked up, rustling the tall grass in the monastery in swirling patterns. Outside of the two of them, it was the only movement in the now-vacated grounds. Geralt listened intently, unwilling to assume they were alone. The rustle of leaves, the creak of a swaying lantern… the flapping of leathery wings. He froze for a moment, focusing more closely to be sure he was right.

He was.

He grabbed Foltest by the arm, and spoke swiftly but calmly. “The dragon is coming back. Run to the cathedral and take cover inside. Don’t look back. Go!”

“Dragon? Are you certain? Why on earth would it-“

“Go! Now!”

It was too late. The beast rose up over the bluffs, spewing fire across the open, grassy yard. Geralt leapt out of the path of the flames, pushing the king to the ground underneath him. Even from a distance, the heat against his back was painfully intense. He rose to his feet as the dragon circled around for another pass, pulling the limping monarch along with him and dashing for the relative safety of the marble cathedral. Discerning their plan, the dragon abandoned its attempt to strafe them with flames, diving instead toward the cathedral and shaking the ground as it planted itself between the men and safety. Geralt drew his sword, dodging the swipe of a taloned hand, and slashed at the beast’s head, narrowly missing. The dragon swung its arm again, this time connecting with the witcher, who only survived it by deflecting the talons with his sword. The strength of the blow was immense, planting him flat on his back. An average man would have had been disemboweled by the six-inch fangs that lunged swiftly downward, but Geralt was no average man. With all the strength he could muster, he rolled aside, thrusting his sword into the open mouth of the beast. The dragon shrieked deafeningly, rearing its wounded head back as an attempt to close its mouth only drove the blade further in. It backed up, standing at first on its hind legs, then turned and lumbered back into the air, roaring in pain as it fled.

Geralt breathed heavily, still flat on his back, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Damn. Really liked that sword.”

“Witcher? I’ve rolled my ankle. Help me up." He complied, helping Foltest to his feet as a handful of temerian knights entered the courtyard, finally responding to the commotion. They escorted the witcher and king across the now-charred grass to the library, but were ordered to stop at the entrance. The king once again requested only Geralt accompany him.

“You saved my life again, Geralt,” the king said, as they crossed the ground floor of the library. “And those of my children as well. Ask what you want of me. Anything at all. Within reason, of course."

“I wish to leave, sire…” Geralt began, hoping the king meant what he said, “and I’d like to take Triss Merigold with me. If she wants, of course.”

Foltest huffed a surprised laugh. “If she wants? Are you _blind_? She’s enamored with you. Ah, I envy you, witcher. A rare beauty, that one. Not many women have refused my advances…”

“So, is that a yes?”

“You would deprive me of my most trusted advisor, and of a superlative warrior and bodyguard? By the gods! I immediately regret my promise. But a king must be a man of his word, mustn’t he? A word once given… Fine. You may leave, and take your sorceress with you. None shall stop you. You have my word.”

Reaching the top of the stairs together, they rounded the corner, where a boy and girl, no more than 4 or 5 years old, were playing together. The children gasped, surprised at the sight of the newcomers, and scurried away.

“Who goes there?” a low voice asked, slow and deliberate, with an heir of intimidation. A large man in a modest, brown robe rose to his feet, leaning on his staff and reaching a hand out in the direction of the king and his protector. Underneath the man’s hood, Geralt could see that his eyes were covered.

“Foltest. I’ve come for my children.” The king took a step toward the blind monk, then turned toward Geralt. “Wait here. You look… ghastly. You’ll scare the children.”

Geralt reluctantly obliged, stepping back into the shadows, as the king cautiously approached the children. The girl, Anais, came running to meet him, wrapping her arms around his leg. The boy, Boussy, was not so eager.

“Go to him, Boussy,” the monk said, trying without success to move the boy, who stayed hidden behind his flowing robe.

“He’s not my father,” the Boussy said quietly.

“But he is your king, boy,” the monk said firmly, standing and placing his arm on Boussy’s back. With great hesitation, Foltest’s son approached him, shirking back slightly when his father placed a hand on his head to pull him in close. Geralt’t focus drifted for a moment, as the king spoke to his children about the wonders that awaited them at his palace in Vizima and all the delicacies they’d enjoy there.

_Where will we go first?_ He wondered, inspecting a wound on his forearm he hadn’t noticed before. _Maybe back to Kaer Morhen? Triss never exactly loved it there, but she feels at home. Or maybe somewhere like Oxenfurt, to pay a visit to Dandelion? As long as it’s far from Vizima_ …

The sound of distant bells rang through the open windows, as the monk spoke up. “Sounds like your triumph is complete, Sire. The city and fortress are taken. Time to thank the Forefather and the Mother Creatrix for this great victory.”

“A moment, blind man,” Foltest replied curtly. “I’ve not seen my children in six months. The gods can spare another minute.”

He spoke with his children once more, bending down to wipe tears from his young son, who clearly did not want to be there.

“My knights are waiting outside,” he said to young Boussy. “I want you to meet them, but I do not want them to see that you’ve been crying. You’ll be a king someday, and kings never weep. You must go and wash your face.”

“There’s a bucket of water in the next room, Sire,” the monk offered. Foltest nodded, and the children walked out of sight.

“You know, Sire,” the monk continued, “the great prophet said there is a time for all men to weep.”

“Well, that time is not now,” he replied, annoyed. “They must look like the royal children they are.”

“Oh, they do, Sire,” the monk replied, stepping toward him. “They have your eyes.”

The monk closed the distance between himself and the king in a flash, brandishing a long, double-edged dagger pulled from within his robe. Geralt leapt across the room as if he were shot out of a catapult, but the distance was too far. He watched helplessly as the blade of the monk’s dagger drew a large arc, glistening in the late afternoon sun cascading through the window, and opened a clean, red line across Foltest’s throat. Blood gushed like a fountain from the wound, which widened below a face that still wore an expression of surprise, rather than pain. The monk heaved the now-limp body at Geralt, and dashed across the room, leaping without breaking stride through the window. The witcher pursued the assassin, coming to a halt at the opening. It was, at the very least, a 50 foot drop to the river below.

Geralt turned and went to the king, kneeling beside him. Foltest, King of Temeria, gasped breathlessly, body limp in shock as the life drained out of it. It was at that inopportune moment that Anais came back into the room, and, seeing the grim picture, screamed wildly. Moments later, half a dozen temerian knights came bounding up the stairs, equally aghast at the damning scene. Geralt lacked even the wherewithal to curse. He simply rose to his feet, hands raised and head held low, as royal blood formed a growing pool beneath him.


	2. "We"

Vernon Roche exhaled a brief sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I suppose that’s the extent of what you’ll give me…”

“That’s the extent of what happened,” Geralt answered flatly. “Does this mean I’m free?”

Roche tilted his head. “Foltest, King of Temeria, has been murdered. Unfortunately for you, you’re the only suspect.”

“The murderer outsmarted you, so I’m to rot in this dungeon? What kind of justice is that?”

“Oh, no danger of rotting. You’ll hang. Quite soon.”

Geralt leaned forward. “Convince them otherwise.”

Roche laughed bitterly. “Right. I have no influence on the court. They will decide your fate.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?”

“Investigating.”

“And you really believe I’m the murderer? After everything I told you?”

“It matters piss-all what I believe.”

“Tell me - what is it you do, then? What’s the point of the special forces?”

“I am a soldier, Geralt. I merely carry out orders… orders others are incapable of executing.”

“Bullshit! You’re the damn commander of the Blue Stripes. Do something! The real murderer is free - you and I both know it -and he’s further and further away with every hour you spend in here ‘following orders.’”

“I find the killer-monk story unconvincing.”

Geralt slapped the table in frustration. “I didn’t say he was a monk, only that he was posing as one. Did you listen at all? He sailed off in a boat with some Scoia’tael.”

Roche frowned and rubbed his temples. “Would you recognize him?”

“No problem. A mountain of a man, and very… _distinctive_ eyes, once he took the wrap off.”

The commander stood and paced the floor for nearly a minute, muttering to himself in deliberation. Finally, he returned, placing his hands firmly on the table and leaning in.

“What would you do if you escaped?”

“I’d go after the kingslayer,” Geralt replied without hesitation.

“You know where to look for him?”

“The Scoia’tael that helped him escape. That’s your thread to follow. I expect you might know this particular group of elves. I’d recognize them, too, by the way.”

“The woods are full of those bastards. What make you think I’d know these in particular?”

“They wore blue-striped headdresses. Trophies, I suspect.”

“Iorveth’s commando,” he said bitterly. “Oh yes, I know them. And I know where to find them. We may just have a trail after all.”

“ _We_?”

“If I’m to chase a killer through Iorveth’s territory, I’ll need one hell of a tracker. I’ve heard your skills in this area are legendary.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, I know all about you. In face, since I’ve got you here, perhaps you could resolve a mystery for me.” Roche reached under the table, sifting through the contents of a large leather bag, and pulled out a stack of parchment bound with hemp string. Untying it without a word, he spread a few of the documents out and began reading.

“This report is from five years ago,” he began. “September 25, 1268. A riot, and subsequent massacre, broke out in Rivia, between humans and non-human residents of the city. Of the population of one thousand, two hundred, thirty-four, two hundred fifty-three of them were non-humans. Seventy-six non-humans perished during the massacre, including Halgrin the dwarf, the town’s smith, elven fugitives Fironn and Cedra, and a witcher, Geralt of Rivia.” Roche browsed through a few other documents. “Ah, here it is. Witnesses report Geralt of Rivia was fatally stabbed by a pitchfork, after killing no less than six humans in defense of the nonhumans hiding inside a tavern. The sorceress, Yennefer of Vengerberg, also perished during the riot, though the relation between these two deaths is unclear at this time. Cause of death…”

Something snapped inside the witcher’s mind when he heard that name, like a cart wheel losing a bolt, then wobbling momentarily before bringing the whole cart crashing down. Memories came flashing across his mind in rapid succession - the same in essence as his dreams. Two bearded dwarves hiding fearfully in a cellar. His ungloved hand pulling a gnomish sword from its scabbard, mounted above a doorpost. Foul curses shouted by a burly, scraggly-faced man touting an elf’s head atop a pike. A failed attempt at reason. The concussion of Aard clearing a pocket in the thickening mob. The sudden jolt of pain as the teeth of a rusty pitchfork impaled his abdomen. Raven-black locks tousled wildly around a panicked, anguish-ridden face, speaking in the elder tongue at it hovered above him. He knew that face. It brought a sense of joy, of excitement, of desire. Violet eyes flooded with tears, surrounded increasingly by red streaks, visibly burdened with incredible strain. Yennefer. He knew her, though he could not quite remember how or why. And then another face. A teenage girl’s, also familiar, but in a different way. Eyes equally flooded with tears, with a scar across one cheek, not unlike his own.

“Geralt? Are you listening?” Roche’s words pulled the witcher out of the moment, though the assortment of images continued to flash across his mind’s eye, lessening with each second, like a shout slowly fading as it echoed through a canyon.

“I saw…” Geralt stuttered, blinking furiously and shaking his head. “I… saw my own death. In Rivia. I remember… pieces.”

“Anything more?” Roche probed. “I’d very much like to know how you’re alive and breathing. The details of your death were well-documented.”

“I’d like to know that, too,” Geralt replied, eyebrows creased together as he stared blankly at the table. The vision of the woman, Yennefer, left him feeling oddly hollow and cold.

Roche stared intently at his prisoner for another long moment, before once again summoning the silent woman.

“Ves!” She appeared shortly, waiting in the doorway for orders. “Interrogation’s over,” Roche said, eyes still fixed on the witcher. “Restrain the prisoner.”

She did as she was told, reviving the sharp, stinging pain of the coarse, iron shackles against Geralt’s raw flesh.

“I’ll take the key,” Roche added as the woman walked by, holding up an open palm. She dropped it in unceremoniously and left the room.

Roche laid the key on the table, then leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Listen carefully. At the dock below the castle is a ship flying a blue striped flag. I sail upriver at dawn… with anyone who happens to be aboard.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “Couldn’t you just petition for my release?”

“Please,” Roche said with a snort. “You’ve no idea of the political shitstorm going on outside these walls. Release the nonhuman ‘kingslayer?’ They’d have me in the cell next to your for even suggesting it. If you were to escape, however… well, you _are_ a mutant, after all. Probably used witchcraft or mind control or some other rubbish to free yourself.” He rose to his feet and walked toward the door. “The guards will be here in five minutes.”

———————————————————

Geralt cursed his ironic luck, as the minutes inched closer to sunrise. The night before, both guards assigned to watch him came in to beat, taunt and otherwise harass him nearly on the hour. Now, when he actually _wanted_ them to open the cell door to mistreat him, they were as docile as cattle. The older of the two sat in a chair with his head slung over the back, face pointed toward the ceiling as he snored loudly, mouth agape. The younger was enthralled by the contents of a book, which, judging by his facial expressions, must have been filled with lascivious drawings of some sort. Geralt stood, arms stretched out, for two more mind numbing-hours before deciding to go on the offensive.

“Hey, milk-mustache! Does your mother know you’re looking at that?” He asked the younger guard, who somehow still found the pages of his book captivating.

“You ploughin’ talkin’ to me?” The man asked, finally looking up.

“No, I like to call myself milk-mustache,” he retorted with bone-dry sarcasm.

“Shut it, freak,” the guard said dismissively, returning to his pictures.

“Careful not to get a paper cut,” the witcher continued. “Wouldn’t want to endanger the only ploughing you’ll get tonight.”

The guard huffed, slamming the book shut. “Listen, you cat-eyed puke. I’ve 'ad about enough of your wit. We’ll see ‘ow chatty you are when you’re ‘angin from the gallows come mornin.’”

“What’s wrong, find conversation too difficult?”

“No… I just don’t ‘ave nothin’ to say to a murderous cockroach like you.”

“Funny,” Geralt replied with a smirk. “Your mother had plenty to say last night. Of course, it was mostly ‘yes! YES! More!’ Over and over…”

Finally, the young man snapped. “That’s it, mutant freak! Time to teach you some goddamn manners.” He rose from his seat, yanked the key ring from the wall and unlocked Geralt’s cell door. The older man sputtered a few sporadic snores and a groan, then returned to a steady, nasal rhythm.

Geralt waited for just the right moment, holding his position until the guard reared his hand back to strike. In an instant, the tables turned. The Witcher slipped his hands free of the shackles, dodged the guard’s off-balance swing, and brought both fists thundering down on his head from behind. With three lighting-fast strides, he was beside the older guard’s chair, striking at his exposed throat with such intensity that he broke the chair back. He kicked the stunned guard violently in the head, then returned to the first, slamming his head against the ground until he rendered him unconscious. Ripping the belts from both wounded men, he bound and gagged them, then locked them in his cell, grabbed a club from a rack on the wall, and cracked the door to the hallway.

Geralt’s keen hearing helped him move through the dank, moldy hallways without encountering any other guards, though he wasn’t sure in which direction he should be traveling to find an exit. He passed through a storeroom filled with wooden crates, a washroom, then a torture chamber, still a mess with blood and human refuse, before hearing a commotion further down the hall. There was shouting, the sound of conflict, and then silence, save the panting of a heavy breath. Grasping the club in his hand tightly, he crept into the hallway, and saw a familiar face. Aryan La Valette was on the floor, legs locked around a guard’s neck in a chokehold. He lingered in the shadows, watching the guard’s body flop like a fish out of water, until at last it went still. The baron released the guard, groaning and laying flat on his back. Geralt approached him slowly, hoping he wouldn’t need to kill the young man he’d worked so hard to spare just a few days past.

“Witcher?” Aryan said amidst gasps. “What the devil… are you doing here?”

“Same thing as you,” Geralt said warily. “Trying to escape.”

“Escape? They imprisoned _you_? Why?”

“They say I killed Foltest.”

“Shame,” he said, groaning as he strained to sit up. “I’d hoped to do that myself. At least you gave the world one less asshole. But if he’s dead… what of my mother’s fate? Is she safe? Was the king’s guarantee honored?”

“I have no idea,” Geralt said impatiently. He knew it was only a matter of time before his gagged guards were discovered. “I’ve been stuck in here. But now’s the time to worry about your own life. This is your dungeon, right? Surely you know the way out.”

“Naturally. But these bloody guards have broken my foot. I can guide you, but you must carry me.”

Geralt sighed. “Fine. Which way to the exit?”

He lifted Aryan, carrying him through a series of turns and staircases until at last, they ended up in a storeroom filled with large barrels.

“This is it?” Geralt asked skeptically.

“I trusted _you_ , witcher. Trust _me_ now. Go into the next room and find a place to hide. Wait for my signal. I shall open a pathway for you.”

Geralt did as he was instructed. Before long, he felt an intense heat, smelled the odor of burning oil, and then flinched at the deafening roar of an explosion. Rushing back into the room, he found no sign of Aryan amidst a wall of flames, but he did find a man-sized hole in the exterior wall. Steeling his resolve, he cast Aard to make a momentary gap in the flames, and rushed through, hanging by his fingertips as his body dangled precariously against the wall. A quick glance at the ground indicated he was fifteen feet or so above a stone walkway. The skin of his fingers began to blister against the intense heat of the stone edifice. There was no time to deliberate. He dropped, trying with only partial success to cushion his landing. Pain shot up his shin bones, paralyzing him momentarily, before adrenaline overcame the reaction, pushing him back to his feet. A warning bell began ringing in the distance as he searched the horizon feverishly to find the dock.

The witcher took off in a dead sprint, rounding a tight corner and stumbling downhill toward the river. He bounded back up once he hit even land again, dashing like a hunted hare along the riverside, until the sails of docked ships appeared in the distance. Geralt glanced over his shoulder, concerned that he was too late. The moon was low in the sky, but it still had a fair way to go until it gave way to the first rays of dawn. In a short time, his wounded, bare feet carried him to the dock, and a quick scan of the handful of ships moored there revealed Roche’s vessel, which thankfully hadn’t departed. He heaved a deep sigh of relief, slowing to a walk as he stepped onto the wooden planks of the dock.

———————————————————

Triss Merigold was reasonably impatient by nature, as all sorceresses were wont to be, but this was a wholly new level of torturous waiting. Despite Vernon Roche’s repetitive instructions to come aboard and wait inside, Triss lingered on the dock, scanning the horizon with such fervor that her eyes kept drying out. _Where is he? Where IS he?! Oh, Geralt, come on!_ After the fourth hour watching in nervous anticipation, her mind began to play tricks on her. Every fish jumping above the water, every bat swooping to devour its prey was for a moment her witcher, running to her, to safety. She knew the severity of hatred all Temeria now held for Geralt. Though Foltest had his detractors, he was, without a doubt, a successful and highly regarded king, and without a clear heir, everyone knew the country was headed for chaotic times.

She allowed herself to close her eyes for a moment, sighing in relief at the moisturizing effect her eyelids provided, but every time she did, her mind was treated to hellish visions of her lover on the gallows, screaming in agony as executioners tore strips of flesh from him with hot pincers. She shuddered, trying in vain to purge the thoughts from her mind, and forced her eyes to open. This time what she saw was no trick.

“Geralt?” She gasped, frozen for a moment as the dark figure on the horizon came running toward her in silence. It was him. It had to be. No ordinary man could move with such speed and such silence. She took a step forward as he slowed to a stop, then, once recognition confirmed her hopes, took off running, crashing into him passionately and wrapping her arms around his wounded back. She felt his ribs expand and contract heavily, felt his heart beating, and was deeply relieved to have him with her again, alive. Pulling back, she studied his face in the waning moonlight, and her heart broke. Geralt’s cheeks were black and blue with deep bruising, eyes swollen and split with gashes.

“Oh, Geralt!” She cried in hushed tones. “What have they done to you?” She placed her hand gently against his face, and he winced, grasping it tenderly and pulling it away.

“I’m fine.”

She blinked away tears that blurred her vision as she surveyed the gashes and sores on his bare chest, then back up to his sincere, but bloodshot eyes. He was anything but fine.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, voice cracking with emotion. “I tried-“

“Triss… what are you doing here?” Geralt asked, glancing over his shoulder as the sound of shouting voices in the distance indicated a manhunt was underway.

She sniffed another tear away, taken back by his question. “I’m… here for _you_. I’m going with you. And Roche.”

“I’m a wanted criminal, Triss. Just being seen with me could get you killed. Don’t throw your life away.”

“What life?” She replied, wiping her eyes with a defeated shrug. “They ransacked my tent at the camp, seized my assets, my home in Vizima... I lost my position. ‘Witcher’s mistress,’ they call me. ‘Kingslayer’s whore.’ Besides… I want to be with you, Geralt. I want to help you, heal you…”

He sighed, holding a stern, disapproving face as long as he could before her words undercut his resistance. “Damnit, Triss. Why can’t you be selfish for once?” He said, expression softening. “Have you really thought this through?”

“Shut up and hold me,” she commanded. He obeyed, pulling her in gently. The feel of her body against his wounded skin was practically medicinal. He quickly forgot why he wanted her to leave, feeling instead a sense of remorse at the treatment she’d received because of her association with him. “I’m innocent, and so are you. Don’t worry. We’ll clear our names. We’ll get out lives back.”

She shuddered as her hands traced gouges in his back left by excessive scourging.

“You need medical attention,” she said. “I have a few supplies on the ship. C’mon, let me get you bandaged up.”

The pair walked together up the wooden steps to the deck of the ship, where Vernon Roche awaited Geralt with a different sort of reception.

“Bloody hell, Geralt! You didn’t have to torch the castle.” Geralt turned to look at the deep black billows of smoke, which were quickly expanding at the top of the bluffs. “You were to sneak out _discretely_ , not start a goddamn blood bath.”

The witcher was in no mood to be scolded. “You left me the key to my manacles, not an invisibility cloak. I had to improvise.”

“Well, you certainly caused a scene. I’ve instructed Ves to have the ship cast off immediately. I’m afraid if we wait any longer, they’ll search us.”

“What’s our destination?” Geralt asked, as the boat lurched under the influence of unfurled sails.

“Flotsam.”

“Flotsam? You learn something new?”

“After our talk, I went over my records. I received a message, sent a week ago, from an informant there. He saw Iorveth in the company of a large, bald man, not unlike the one you described.”

“A week ago? Sounds like a cold trail to me.”

“It’s better than no trail,” Roche rebutted defensively. “We need to start somewhere - preferably far from here, where I’m not seen harboring a fugitive. The trading post is a few days upriver, in the forests that lie on the Aedirnian border. Scoia’tael territory.”

“Terrific,” Geralt replied flatly. “Flotsam it is.”

———————————————————

“Hold still!” Triss chided, trying her best to stitch the witcher’s wounds back together in the dim, hazy estuary of night and dawn. Between Geralt’s movements and the incessant rise and fall of the ship on the choppy water, she was sure she was doing more harm than good with her needle.

“Did you learn anything about the political situation before they ousted you?” Geralt asked, hardly flinching as she plunged the needle in and out of the skin around a long, infected-looking gash under his left arm. He took another swig of vodka and clenched his teeth in anticipation of the pain.

“Not much. John Natalis has the strongest reputation, and as a general, he has the army behind him, but he’s low-born. The barons would never go for him. Adda is a Redanian now, Anais and Boussy are too young… it’s gonna be a mess for a long while.”

“What about Louisa La Valette? Did the soldiers show her mercy?”

“As far as I heard. She’s essentially under house arrest in her estate outside the castle grounds. Though, with the assassination happening during her rebellion…”

“She may suffer the same fate as her lover,” Geralt surmised. “As Dandelion would say, how romantically ironic.”

“In a perfect world,” Triss continued, “John Natalis would serve as a caretaker of the crown, a steward of sorts, until Boussy grows old enough to reign legitimately. Sort of like what Philippa Eilhart and Sigismund Dijkstra did for Radovid when his father was assassinated. The difference is, Eilhart and Dijktsra were already established advisors. Natalis is essentially an outsider.”

“I’m sure they’ll figure something out,” Geralt said, wrapping up the conversation and going quiet for a moment before changing the subject. “Did Roche tell you about our conversation in the dungeon?”

“He did. This assassin-“

“He’s a witcher, Triss.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. Are you sure?”

“Positive. Don’t recognize him, though. He’s not from the school of the Wolf or Cat. Griffon went extinct years ago, and he’s too young to be Ursine. What in the hell is going on?”

“I wish I knew. Maybe…” she sighed. “No, never mind.”

“Maybe what?”

“… Maybe you _do_ know him… you just forgot. Your memory-“

“About that,” Geralt interjected, pulling her hand from his side and looking the sorceress in the face. “Something happened - during the interrogation. Roche started reading his intelligence report… about the riot in Rivia. And as he did… I don’t know what happened, but I started to remember things. It was in flashes, like the dream, but even more vivid. I could feel things, hear them. For a moment, I was there again.”

“What a terrible thing to relive,” Triss said, her voice oddly shallow as she looked away to hide the concern in her eyes. While she wanted Geralt to be whole again, she was more than a little apprehensive about the return of his memory from the past life. The thought of what she stood to lose made her weak in the knees and sick to her stomach.

“Triss - look at me,” Geralt said, forcing her eyes to return to his face, which wore a sober, stern look she was unaccustomed to seeing. “I want- … I _need_ you to tell me about Yennefer. In detail. Even the things you don’t want to tell me. Things that might hurt. No more sidestepping the issue. I want to hear everything.”

“Everything?”  
“ _Everything_.”

———————————————————

Triss Merigold had been in love with Geralt for many years, long before he returned to life as an amnesiac. The past six months of budding romance between them wasn’t the first time they’d been together, though it did share certain similarities. Both times, she dove in headfirst, opening her heart more readily than would seem prudent. Both times, she became invested in his world. His family at Kaer Morhen became her family. Both times, she lived mentally under the ever-encroaching shadow of Yennefer of Vengerberg. Triss knew she would never have the kind of shared history that Geralt and Yennefer had. She knew she’d never have the level of window-rattling sexual intensity or the heart-binding shared parentage they felt for Ciri. One thing she _did_ have, however, was compatibility. Simply put, things were easy between Triss and Geralt. They had always been that way. Even in the times when they weren’t romantically involved, conversation between the two of them had always been as natural as breathing. It was that dynamic that made their talk on the river that much more heartbreaking, for it was anything but easy.

Geralt listened with near-wordless silence as Triss told him “everything” about Yennefer. Everything from Triss’s perspective, that is. What she painted was far from an objective picture of the past, but one as lovestruck as she could hardly have been expected to do otherwise. She told Geralt the famous story of how he’d met Yennefer in Rinde, brought together seemingly by fate over a dangerous ordeal with a djinn. She told him how he’d saved Yennefer’s life by cleverly wishing for his fate to be tied to hers, and how that wish had brought her across his path again and again for many years. She invested ample time describing Yennefer’s fickle, on-and-off relationships with both Geralt and the sorcerer, Istredd, how her decision to bed them both in the same day had backfired, how she’d left Geralt with only a brief note, delivered by a raven, before disappearing from his life for years. Triss told him how that same month, his travels to Maribor brought his path across hers, how a one-night curiosity became a weekend, then a month, and finally six months sharing life together at Kaer Morhen. With tears, she recounted the day Geralt walked out, unable to fully commit his heart to her. She told of her invitation back to Kaer Morhen, their platonic friendship, and their brief reunion at the mages’ summit on Thanedd (omitting the details of the kiss on the cheek she received from Geralt there, and the verbal lashing she received from Yennefer moments afterward). Inevitably, though, the conversation came back to Yennefer. A growing fear darkened her spirits like approaching storm clouds as she shared more and more about her friend and rival. The fear that she was still not enough for Geralt, that even from the grave (for in her mind, she was convinced her friend was dead), Yennefer would keep him distant from her. The fear that her decision to omit these stories had actually brought about that fate she so dreaded. Her fears were not unfounded.

After several hours spent giving a comprehensive history of Yennefer of Vengerberg, Triss was relieved when Geralt asked instead about the ashen-haired teenage girl in his memories. Sadly for Triss, learning about Ciri, Geralt’s adopted daughter, only deepened his anguish over the loss of his memory and his frustration with those who could have provided details to him earlier. As powerful as the emotions were that Yennefer elicited in the witcher, they paled in comparison to the way learning about young Cirilla affected him.

When at last Triss detailed the final time she’d been seen, and that for all intents and purposes she was believed to be gone from their world forever, Geralt could bear to hear no more, and ceased his interrogation. It was a mercy to them both, for they had both acted in ways they would later regret. Unaware of the effect of fatigue and stress on their emotions, they’d become curt and defensive. Neither had entered the conversation intending to injure the other. Neither left without feeling attacked, hurt and betrayed. Triss spent the rest of the day alone, sobbing, sleeping and rethinking the wisdom of fleeing the castle with Temeria’s most wanted criminal. Geralt spent the day staring at the ceiling of the lower deck, trying so hard to at least _dream_ his lost life that he prevented that very thing from happening. He cursed Foltest and his stupid war. He cursed the assassins, both the one he stopped and the one he missed. He cursed Vernon Roche for making him escape, the Temerian nobles so quick to condemn a nonhuman without trial, the rivian boy who stabbed him during the riot because the _rivians_ were so quick to condemn nonhumans, he cursed his own naïveté for believing such things could change. Geralt cursed and cursed until he’d covered practically everyone he’d ever known, and when sleep finally did take him, he dreamt of nothing at all. It was, for both the witcher and sorceress, a miserable voyage.


	3. A Rough Landing

When traveling by water, one tends to become acclimated in time to the gradual rise and fall of the deck below one’s feet, the gentle sway as one is carried forth by the rocking waves as a babe is in a mother’s swing. Just as the sudden halt of a mother’s rhythmic cadence of steps would be startling to her bundled child, the sudden, lurching cessation of forward motion woke Geralt from what would otherwise have been classified as light - though not entirely restless - sleep. Years along the witcher’s path had taught him to treat any unexpected change in surroundings with caution before curiosity, which is why, though still dressed only in his leather trousers, he emerged from below deck sword in hand with senses on high alert.  
The morning sun was still coloring the sky when he stepped outside, but already, the ship was abuzz with activity. Shirtless men crouched on their hands and knees, scrubbing the already-clean planks as they whistled a tune together. Commandos-turned-seamen turned cranks and coiled ropes, navigators clustered around a map, pointing fingers and arguing, crossbowmen scanned the shore in both directions, weapons ever at the ready. Seeing no sense of urgency amongst the crew, Geralt sheathed his sword, rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes as he stepped across the wet, soapy deck to join Roche and an unidentified newcomer, who looked as though he didn’t belong on a military vessel.  
“Good, you’re up,” Roche said, squinting at Geralt as the wind whipped his coarsely-woven blue head wrap against his face like a flag. “We’ve had a bit of a change of plans. I’ll need your help.”  
“Care to share the details?” Geralt asked, grateful he possessed the ability to dilate his pupils at will.  
“Merton, here, is the informant I spoke with you about earlier. He’s brought news that Flotsam’s harbor is closed due to the presence of some colossal beast, which has recently taken to pulling sailors from their boats and devouring them. Merchants have been backed up at the trading post for days.”  
“Lovely,” Geralt sighed, closing his eyes and smiling sarcastically.  
“Oh, it gets better. The damned fool in charge of the fort has taken to firing upon ships attempting to dock without prior authorization. We’ll have to drop anchor here and send an envoy on foot to request permission to dock closer to town. That’s where you come in. The forest between here and Flotsam is full of Scoia’tael. Traversing it may prove to be… perilous. From my understanding, you’re a difficult man to sneak up on. I need your ears.- and your sword. Assuming you’ve recovered sufficiently from your imprisonment…”  
“I’ll be fine. How far do we have to travel, and who’s going with us?”  
“If things go well? An hour at most. Hopefully less. I’d like to keep as small a footprint as possible to avoid detection. Merton, here, will guide you and me, and your sorceress, if you think she’s up to the hike.”  
“Sure you don’t want one of your own instead?” Geralt asked, glancing at the abundance of blue-striped uniforms available to the commander. Triss and he had hardly spoken since they concluded ‘the talk’ at the beginning of the trip. He wasn’t especially keen on spending an hour avoiding small talk with her.  
“Should things go badly, I wouldn’t mind having someone along who can topple castle towers with fireballs. And I do hope the two of you have worked out whatever squabble it is between you. Nothing worse than the nagging of feuding lovers.”  
Geralt chuckled, smiling wryly. “You don’t miss much, do you?”  
Roche’s face brightened with the slightest hint of smug satisfaction at the witcher’s tacit confirmation of his suspicions. “Wouldn’t be much of an intelligence officer if I did. Gear up. We leave in half an hour.”

———————————————————

Twenty minutes into the expeditionary trek, Geralt was already miserable. The shoreline quickly rose to impassible bluffs, which veered their path into the dense, humid and insect-laden forest. He huffed a sigh as he smacked yet another biting pest against his neck, smearing the remains of the creature against his sweat-soaked trousers. It was the first sound he’d made since leaving the shore.   
When faced with a situation in which he wished to avoid talking - which tended to be a frequent scenario - Geralt always employed the same strategy: cease talking altogether, and eventually the other party will tire of trying. With the lone exception of his friend, Dandelion the bard, it was nearly always effective. In this instance, for example, Triss, Roche and Merton the informant seemed perfectly fine conversing amongst themselves, which was a relief to the witcher. Relationally challenging conversations were not a particular strength of his. They talked at length about the political fallout from Foltest’s death, the history of Flotsam as a long-contested territory between Temeria and the neighboring kingdom of Aedirn, and other such topics as one would expect a court advisor, an intelligence officer and an informant to discuss. Geralt elected to follow from a few paces back, both because he found the subjects disinteresting, and because it offered him a pleasant view of the sorceress, whose travel clothes were much more fitted to her slender-yet-balanced figure than the formalwear she typically chose as a court mage. Spat or not, he wasn’t one to let a good view go to waste.   
Having drowned out the political discourse in front of him, Geralt began to focus on filtering the cornucopia of sensory inputs the forest provided. The air was dense with the spice of tree sap, the zest of tall grass stalks, the musk of damp moss, and of course, the delicious aroma of Triss Merigold. A dense canopy of deep green leaves stretched higher above them the further into the forest they journeyed, with many branches reaching more than a hundred feet overhead. Their overlapping foliage cast dancing, dappled blotches of light on the creek-filled greenery below, camouflaging the sporadic movement of birds, toads and crickets, which scurried away as the group's heavy footsteps disrupted their habitat. A half hour later, the incessant, repetitive droning of sights, smells and sounds were beginning to lull the witcher to sleep, until he noticed a faint melody in the distance, one he soon identified as a wooden flute of some kind. It was the type of instrument most frequently associated with elves.  
“Hear that?” He interrupted, once the sound grew louder. The three ahead of him stopped and listened intently.   
“Weapons at the ready,” Roche said, narrowing his eyes.   
They walked ahead for a few minutes, generally following the sound of the music, until they reached a small clearing in the densely-packed tree canopy. Up ahead, perched on the trunk of a large fallen tree which spanned a narrow valley, was an elf eyeing the three of them suspiciously as he continued his tune. Roach peered at the musician for a moment, then tightened his grip on the hilt of his sheathed sword.  
“Iorveth himself,” he shouted toward the elf, who finally stopped playing once they were within thirty yards or so. “How nice of you to welcome our arrival with song.”  
“A keen eye you have, commander,” Iorveth shouted back in a slightly grittier take on the typical lilt of elvish voices pronouncing common speech. He gave a courteous nod, then sprang to his feet as if he were weightless. “Vernon Roche, Commander of the Blue Stripes, servant of the Temerian King. Responsible for the pacification of the Mahakaman foothills. Hunter of elves, murderer of women and children. Your reputation precedes you, good sir.”  
“As does yours,” Roche fired back. “Iorveth - a regular son of a whore.”  
“Careful, he’s not alone,” Geralt whispered to his companions. He could hear the muted breath of elven adults encroaching on their position from the heights ahead of them.  
Iorveth walked across the tree toward the higher of two sides of the small valley, his lithe footsteps utterly silent from that distance - even to a witcher’s ears. He was a tall figure - over six feet - dressed in a quilted olive-green tunic, with skirted pleats reaching just below his knees. He had an unsheathed sword tied around his waist with a scarf, and a large, recurve bow slung over his shoulder. A dull, red-dyed bandana covered his head and one eye, which, judging by the scar below it, was most likely lost in battle. All in all, he looked exactly as one would expect an elven renegade to.   
“I’ve long awaited our meeting,” Iorveth shouted, clearly stalling to buy time for his archers to take position. “I’ve laid plans, set traps… and now you appear in my forest of your own volition. To what do I owe the honor?”  
“You aided the man who slew my king,” Roche growled, as Geralt sensed the tingle of a spell formed in Triss’s hand. “I’ve come to administer justice.”  
Iorveth scoffed. “King or beggar - what’s the difference? One dh’oine less.”  
“We need to take him alive, Triss,” Geralt whispered. “Anything in that bag of tricks of yours?”  
“Maybe…” she whispered back. “I’ll need a minute.”  
He stepped in front of Triss, addressing the elf on the heights. “Since when do the Scoia’tael hire professional killers to do their dirty work? And a dh’oine, at that?”  
“A hired killer, true,” the elf replied, crossing his arms, “but in all certainty, he is no dh’oine.”  
“The kingslayer is who we’ve come for,” Geralt said, eliciting a huff and look of annoyance from Vernon Roche. “Turn him over, and there will be no need for conflict.”  
“It seems our interests collide, master witcher. This ‘kingslayer’ is under my protection. I’ll not hand over a guest.”  
“Enough of this piss!” Roche shouted, drawing his sword. “Hand him over, or die!”  
The elf chuckled.”You first.” His archers, who up until that point had been waiting out of sight, rose out of the undergrowth silently, drawing their bows in smooth unison.  
“Triss!” Geralt blurted out, drawing his sword.  
“On it!”   
As the elves took aim and loosed their arrows, she circled her arms, forming intricate patterns with her fingers and chanting in the Elder Speech. “Addan quen, spars-paerpe’tlon vort!”  
Geralt’s medallion leapt from his chest, as an invisible barrier formed around them just in time to turn the incoming arrows into a flock of iridescent butterflies. The archers look at each other, stupefied. Roche grinned widely.  
“Told you, witcher.”   
“How long can you hold that up?” Geralt asked, tracking the Scoia’tael audibly as they regrouped to try a different approach.  
“… for a bit…” she grunted, breathing heavily. “I think…”  
Another volley hit the barrier, adding to the shimmering display of colors around them. Triss groaned. “Aaah! Okay, boys… we’re gonna need to get out of here… … quickly…”  
Geralt heard lightweight footsteps descending the hillside toward their position. The “squirrels,” as the humans referred to the Scoia’tael warriors, were trying a hand-to-hand attack.   
“They’re coming for us!” Merton cried, bolting down the path ahead of the others - and beyond Triss’s bubble of protection.  
“Wait, damnit!” Roach commanded, taking off after him. Geralt and Triss tried to follow, but the sorceress quickly fell behind the pace.   
“Slow down, Roche!” Geralt said, glancing behind them. The elves hadn’t reached them yet. “She can’t keep up with us.”  
“Merton!” Roche yelled again, slowing to allow Triss and Geralt to catch up. The informant whirled around to retreat, but before he’d taken two steps, an arrow passed cleanly through his neck, dropping him to the ground instantly.   
With widened eyes, Roche dashed back, placing his shoulder under Triss’s arm, and walking her forward. “Together it is. Come on! We’re not far from the village walls.”  
The trio moved much more slowly, deflecting one more round of arrows, and eliciting another cry of exertion from Triss. Geralt took his eyes off of the forest for a moment to assess her condition. It wasn’t good. Her diaphragm contracted deeply with short, spasmodic breaths, hands trembling as they held the spell’s position, eyes closed, face pale white, drenched in sweat. An unexpected burst of emotion seized the witcher’s heart as he continued forward, stealing his breath away. The nudge of a memory pushed against his consciousness, transmuting his usual calm, pragmatic approach into one of worry and dread. Spells of this magnitude were usually momentary, not protracted. It was common knowledge that channeling too much energy through a mage’s body could bring about a loss of consciousness in mild conditions, and death in severe cases.   
“I need… oh… … I need to … … to stop for … a moment,” Triss said faintly between wheezing gasps. It was less than ideal timing. The guerrillas in the underbrush finally launched their attack, running at the now-stationary humans in unison. Geralt took off in a dead sprint to meet them, leveraging his momentum to enhance the effect of the Aard Sign, with which he sent the elves flying through the air like seed scattered over a field.   
“Roche!” He shouted over his shoulder, kicking the sword out of one fighter’s hand and leaping back to dodge a knife thrown by another. “Get her out of here!”  
Roche didn’t argue, heaving Triss over his shoulder like a sack of flour and running toward the safety of Flotsam’s border. Geralt turned just in time to parry a swipe from a she-elf who’d risen to her feet quicker than he expected. He rebounded with an elbow to her sternum and a fierce strike against her extended shin with his boot heel, resulting in a loud crack and a shriek of pain. A fourth attacker fell to his knees after being slashed across the naval, but lived to fight another day, for even as Geralt dealt the blow, he redirected his momentum and dashed toward his friends. Triss’s barrier was surely expired by now - another volley from elven archers would prove fatal. He reached them quickly, running alongside Roche until the high, log walls of the trading post were in view. They slid to a halt moments later, as a second group of archers, positioned high in the trees ahead of them, let loose their arrows. Geralt reacted in a flash, pushing Roche (and Triss) aside with a strong thrust of his left arm, while contorting his body and swinging his blade around with his right. One of the arrows missed narrowly, sinking into a rotting stump with a soft thud. A second glanced off of the steel blade, careening harmlessly into a thicket several yards away. The third hit its mark - almost. The sharpened bone arrowhead scraped against Geralt’s rib, taking a strip of leather and a chunk of flesh with it as it passed by. He grunted in pain, but quickly reset his feet to prepare for another round of projectiles, only to watch the elves scatter into the woods like the birds and crickets had earlier.   
A group of seven or eight metal-clad men came bounding toward them from the outpost, shields and pikes in hand. Geralt scanned the horizon to be sure the elves’ dispersal was an escape and not a feint, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the distance. Far out of range, on a rocky hilltop stood Iorveth, the elven bandit leader, and beside him, the hulking behemoth from the monastery. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked to Geralt as if, for the narrowest of moments, the unknown witcher assassin’s eyes were locked on his. And then, as quickly as the glimpse came, they were gone from his sight, hidden in the verdant overgrowth of the forest. He took a moment more to search for signs of enemy movement, then turned to follow the group of soldiers, who had already begun a hasty retreat back to Flotsam with Roche and Triss in tow. The moment they were through the gate, he pressed through the crowd, pushing bodies aside, and took Triss in his arms. He moved a few paces back from the wall and carefully laid her on the patchy grass, then hurriedly checked her vital signs.  
She’s breathing. Heart rate is low. Very low, but… no, for her it’s close enough to normal. “Triss? … … Triss?” He called softly, voice much calmer than it should be, given the circumstances. “Can you hear me?”  
The sorceress flinched her eyes tightly and drew a deep breath in, exhaling slowly as a curious crowd began to form around them. She blinked a few times, then fixated her eyes, which were crisscrossed with jagged red lines and broken vessels, on Geralt, as the color began to return to her face.   
Yennefer. The name forced itself upon his mind, as flashes of the black-haired sorceress and her similarly-bloodshot eyes appeared before him. I know how she died. It was magic. It was… for me. During the riot. She was trying to save me… When the slideshow of memories ended - as abruptly as it had begun - Geralt realized he’d been completely ignoring something Triss was attempting to say.  
“What?” He asked, blinking rapidly and shaking his head.  
“I said I, think I uh… ove-“ She coughed dryly before finishing her thought. “… overdid it a bit.” Triss’s miserable-looking eyes rolled back for a moment before refocusing on the witcher’s face.   
“You could say that,” he replied, eyebrows relaxing with relief. “Somebody bring me some water!” He called to no one in particular, brushing sweat-stuck hair from her cheek and fanning her face. “We’re safe now. Rest.”   
A few minutes later, Roche walked over, encouraging the crowd around them to disperse.  
“Lovely chat with the city guard,” he said, his tone thick with sarcasm. “Took me five minutes to convince them the Blue Stripes are, in fact, a legitimate entity, and that we’re here on official kingdom business. Buggers had the nerve to demand we go before the town magistrate for questioning.” He spat, folding his arms and peering down at Triss, who by that time was sitting up and sipping from a wooden cup.   
“Are you going to be alright?” He asked. “I have to say, that was some damn good spell-casting. Saved our asses.”  
“I’ll be fine,” she said dismissively. In truth, she was already feeling much better, but Geralt’s sudden pivot from indifferent to endearing was nice - if fleeting - and she was in no hurry to end it.   
“Good,” Roche said with a nod. “A detachment will go by rowboat and guide the ship to a safer unloading point, about ten minute’s walk from the other city gate. In the meantime, there’s an inn and brothel on the city square. We’ll be more comfortable resting there while we wait. Can you walk?” Triss cringed internally, but wore a smile. “I can manage. Lead the way.”  
Taking hold of Geralt’s forearm, “for stability,” Triss followed Roche through the outer walls and into the actual village of Flotsam. It was a modest establishment - dirt streets pockmarked with deep ruts and puddles, two-story wood slat homes and storefronts with thatched roofs, wooden shop signs so faded and dirt-crusted they were barely legible. The narrow, bending alley they followed soon opened up into the town square, which was busy with commerce. A dwarven blacksmith pounded on his anvil while an associate haggled with an elderly man about horseshoe prices. A rotund, bald-headed merchant peddled spices to a pair of young women, eliciting giggles as he described how they might be used to entice young men toward amorous behaviors. An elven seamstress walked to and fro, repeating the same sales pitch about expertly-woven scarves, of which several dozen were draped over one arm. In the middle of the square, as had been common in villages far and wide since the end of the second war with Nilfgaard, stood gallows on a tall platform. Judging by the odor of human excrement still wafting through the air, it had been used recently.  
The trio made their way through the busy town center, receiving no small amount of suspicious looks from the local populace, and arrived at the large, two-story establishment eponymously titled, “The Flotsam Inn.” Underneath the wooden sign (upon which was the image of a portly man, goblet in hand straddling a keg), was a notice board. A witcher is ever on the lookout for the next job, and as notice boards are often sources for work, witchers never pass one without at least scanning the contents. As fate would have it, Geralt’s eyes were drawn to one notice in particular. He stopped dead in his tracks, snatching the leaflet from the board and reading it again, just to be sure he wasn’t mistaken.  
He wasn’t.  
Listed amongst the names of “traitors to the crown” to be hung at noon was one he recognized all too well, one he couldn’t stand idly by and allow to hang, no matter his transgression.  
Zoltan Chivay.


	4. Stringing Up Sods

Vernon Roche was frustrated, and it showed. He was the type of man who did not wish to repeat himself. “No,” given once, meant “no, and don’t speak to me about this subject again.” Nevertheless, Geralt continued to plead his case as sun rose ever closer to high noon.

“For the love of all the gods, do you not understand? My ‘jurisdiction’ means precisely _shit_ here,” Roche growled, raising his voice to a near-shout, more to stay above the din of the raucous inn than from verbal aggression.

Geralt refused to take “no” for an answer. His friend - one of the few he had in this post-amnesia life - was set to hang in less than two hours. “No” wasn’t an option.

“In case you’ve already forgotten,” Roche continued, lowering his voice slightly, “I have no written orders, no standing hierarchal authority in this shit-hole town.”

“ _They_ don’t know that,” Geralt countered, as close to ‘emotional’ as he tended to get in a conversation. “You saw how backward those guards are. Make something up.”

Roche closed his eyes, heaving a long, frustrated sigh. “Look, I’m sorry, I am, but we have a mission, Geralt. A very sensitive and urgent one. If we give the local authorities here reason to inquire about us in Vizima, things will get very ugly for us very quickly.”

“So what - you’d have us stand by and do nothing?”  
“Yes! Yes, we will stand by and do nothing. I’m not about to put this mission and the lives of my men in jeopardy for some goddamned dwarf!”

His words hung in the air for a long, awkward moment before Triss interjected. “What if helping him _is_ helping the mission? He’s gonna hang for treason, right?”

“What’s your point, Merigold?” Roche asked impatiently.

“Don’t you see it? What kind of ‘treason’ would a dwarf get mixed up in that would get him executed in this town? I’ll bet he’s working with the Scoia’tael.”

“All the more reason to string him up-“

“Shut up and listen,” Triss interrupted. “We need to get to Iorveth. Zoltan probably knows how, and Geralt and I know Zoltan. If you can get him out of the gallows, he could be the key to finding Iorveth - and the kingslayer.”

Roche considered it for a moment. “And if he’s just a common criminal?”

“Then we question him,” Geralt suggested. “Or use him to get information from the dwarves in the city. Your informant’s dead. You could use a new source of information.”

“Fine. We’ll try it,” Roach conceded. “But no promises.”

The three of them left the Inn, following directions given by the innkeeper until they reached the far side of the harbor. A large, wooden barge was moored at the end of a long pier, with guards posted at each end of the walkway. The hulking vessel, which served as a temporary prison, sat low in the murky water, heavy-laden with bandits, thieves and other dissidents. Roche approached the guard at the entrance to the pier, handing him a paper with orders forged by Triss, and barked out commands in his typical, slightly abrasive tone.

“I’m here to collect the dwarf, Zoltan Chivay. He’s to be released into my custody immediately.”

The guard’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion, as he glanced back and forth at the three unknown faces standing opposite him.

“Um… who did you say you were again?”

Roche sighed loudly and put his fists on his hips. “Vernon Roche. Commander of the Blue Stripes. Now, we’re on a tight schedule. Run and fetch him at once.”

The guard squinted at the paper, turning it around, then back to the way he first received it. Clearly he didn’t read well, if at all.

“Uh… weren’t he the one to be hanged today? I know it was a few o’ the dwarves. Name sounds familiar.”

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Roche said, not having to feign his annoyance. “I’m pursuing the bastard who assassinated our king, and this particular dwarf has information vital to my investigation. Fetch him at once, or I shall have you thrown in with him and the others for obstructing my endeavors.”

The guard clutched the shaft of his pike nervously, looking around and biting his lip.

“Well, you see master, um…”

“ _Commander_ Roche”

“Ah yes, Commander Roche, sir… well, the problem is, sir… that, um… well, I’m not to release any of the prisoners, ‘cept that Loredo gives the order first. And, seein’ as how he’s, well… _indisposed_ presently, I’m afraid I cannot do what you ask.”

Before Roche could fire back angrily again, Geralt stepped forward, tapping him on the shoulder with one hand as he discretely formed the Sign of Axii in the other. “That won’t be a problem, my good man,” he said calmly and slowly. “Loredo has signed this letter. His seal is on it.”

The man looked at the note again, blinking and squinting. “So it is,” he replied with an almost-sleepy monotone. “I shall fetch him at once. Wait here, if you will.”

As he turned and walked toward the other end of the pier, Roche looked incredulously at the witcher. “How on earth?”

“Trade secret,” Geralt replied with just a hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth. Most witchers were taught to use Signs - simple spells in their most basic forms, which could be cast during battle by hand gestures alone. Those witchers didn’t have Triss Merigold as a tutor, though. After spending the past few months refining his magical abilities under Triss’s tutelage, Geralt had become unusually proficient in the arcane arts. She credited it to his uncommon parentage. Children born to sorceresses were exceedingly rare - verging on mythical - but Geralt happened to be one of those mythical exceptions. As a result, he inherited a latent but potent aptitude for channeling magical energy from his mother, though growing up in the fortress of Kaer Morhen, these gifts were never properly attuned. As impressed as the Blue Stripes commander was with Geralt’s abilities, he remained wary of their deceptive prison break.

“And what about when he hands the paper to someone who’s actually literate?” He asked, one eyebrow raised.

“It’ll say what we need it to say,” Triss replied casually. “For the next hour or so.”

“And then?”

“Blank as his intellect.”

Roche chuckled, shaking his head in amazement. “You two and your mind games. Glad you’re on my side.”

A few minutes later, the guard returned, escorting a stout, weathered-looking dwarf. He stood - as mosts dwarves do - not much above waist-high, with a beard that reached nearly to his naval. His head was shaved, save for one wide strip in the middle, with a tuft of coarse hair that stuck straight up. As soon as he was close enough to recognize his white-haired friend, his face lit up in a wide, toothy smile.

“Geralt of Rivia! Just in the bloody nick of time, ya’ are. What in the blazes ‘ye doin all the way out here? Ah, doesnae matter. I’m just glad to see ye.”

“Good to see you too, Zoltan,” Geralt replied, trying not to seem to chummy in front of the guard. Axii or not, they still had appearances to keep up. “This is Vernon Roche with the Blue Stripes. We have some questions to ask you.”

“Aye, of course. Anything ye need. Only, uh… might we do it over a mug o’ mead and a wee morsel? I havnae eaten in two days.”

“Of course,” Geralt answered, as the guard unlocked Zoltan’s shackles. “Let’s get right to it.”

———————————————————

The Flotsam Inn was nearly deserted by the time Zoltan and his rescuers arrived there, as the majority of the patrons had gone outside to the square to secure a vantage point from which to view the hangings. Conversely, Zoltan wished to have the gallows as far from his mind as possible, so after being served a turkey leg and a bowl of beans, the group descended into the basement (where the clamor of the crowd was less easily heard) and began catching up. Geralt told Zoltan of the assassination of Foltest, his subsequent escape from prison, and the encounter with Iorveth’s Scoia’tael just hours earlier.

“… and that’s why we need your help,” Geralt said, steering the conversation to the point. “We need to get to Iorveth.”

“Oh… I see. Well, that’s a bit of a tall order,” the dwarf replied, ripping off a hunk of meat from the bone and chewing as he continued. “He’s not an easy bugger to get to.”

“What dealings did you have with him?” Roche asked, taking on a demeanor and tone Geralt recognized from the prison interrogation.

“With Iorveth? Ah, nothin’ at all. It was all more of a… well, I’d say a misunderstandin.’ Ye see, I came here two months back to help my cousin, Gefrin. He’s a tanner, and folk here’d taken to vandalizing his shop, intimidating customers… the regular shite that humans do everywhere. Uh-well… present company excluded, of course…”

“To the point, dwarf,” Roche prodded.

“Right, right…” Zoltan continued, drinking deeply from his mug and wiping the froth ineffectively from his beard. “So Gefrin’s a braw tanner, but he’s a bit of a pushover, ye see? I helped him cut through the muck, get things done. Well, the limp-cocked humans threw a fit when we stood up to ’em, soured their mates against my cousin’s wares, so we decided to sell _outside_ the city walls. Lots of demand for tanned furs with the forest elves.”

“So you supplied Iorveth’s men with items from the shop?” Triss asked.

“Well, not directly, of course! Haha! I’m not _that_ stupid. In truth, I didnae know they were Scoia’tael at first, just knew they had coin. Wasnae until a week ago that I found out for sure. By that time, Loredo and his pricks were onto us. Grabbed me and dragged me off to that damned floating latrine they call a prison.”

“Does Iorveth know you've been apprehended?” Roche asked, leaning back and waving at the air in front of his face, as the smells of Zoltan’s meal came rushing back with the kind of deep, bone-rattling belch that only dwarves seemed capable of.

“Canna say for certain, though if you’re insinuating that I try and-“

Zoltan cut off his sentence abruptly at the sound of a thunderous crash. The ceiling above them rattled, showering them with a cloud of dust.

“What the devil?” Roche asked, looking at Geralt, who could hear panicked screaming coming from the direction of the harbor.

“We’d better find out,” the witcher replied, tightening his bandolier and bounding up the stairs and out the back door of the inn.His medallion began shaking as soon as he stepped outside, intensifying as he rounded the corner and neared the wooden planks of the harbor. Blinding bolts of electricity spanned the harbor in bright blue streaks, centering on a huge, greyish tentacle the size of a tree trunk. The appendage wriggled and thrashed against the deck wildly, sending broken planks and muddy streams of water flying in all directions. After another bolt of electricity shot into the water, the tentacle withdrew, leaving behind a thick viscous trail of slime on the boardwalk, as though a giant slug had passed through.

Geralt slowed to a halt a few paces back, scanning the surface of the water for signs of activity, but it looked as though the source of the monstrous tentacle had retreated into the murky depths - at least, for the moment. On the broken deck in front of him, a man clutched his abdomen, retching and moaning, as a crowd of panicked onlookers cautiously approached. An elegantly-dressed woman also approached casually, standing out from the crowd as a raven would against a field of snow. She was about shoulder-height to Geralt, dressed in an ornate, black velvet gown and coordinating satin gloves which reached to her upper arms, leaving her bronze shoulders bare. Also bare was an ample portion of her bosom, with a plunging neckline that framed a circular, runic symbol written or tattooed on her sternum. Atop her head was an elaborate hairdo, with a lattice of satin ribbons confining coal-black hair into an inverted triangle. It was the type of exotic fashion that only sorceresses would dare attempt.

Before Geralt could address the woman, she was accosted by a grimy-faced man from the crowd. “Oi! There’s the witch now. Say, what kind of sorceress are you? A lot o’ good you did! Look ‘ere at poor Sosek, retching in this… slime!”

“Can’t you hear, wench?” Another man chimed in. “Why didn’t you help ‘im?”

She turned toward the men, placing a hand on a cocked hip. “He’s _alive_ , isn’t he?” Her speech was articulate and sophisticated, but with an obvious northern accent - the type one might expect from Kovir or Poviss.

“The beast nearly pulled ‘im in the water,” the first man exclaimed, waving his hand demonstratively, “whilst you stood, staring like a calf at a shit-covered clover!”

The woman leaned forward threateningly. “Watch your words, sir, else you _become_ a calf staring at a clover.” Geralt’s medallion lurched as a blue light appeared in her upturned palm. The crowd quickly took a step back, gasping and muttering. Sensing his opportunity, he stepped closer and spoke up.

“What was that beast?”

The woman spun around gracefully, then froze. The moment she noticed the witcher, her face took on a look of recognition, then confusion, and finally surprise, all in the span of one second.

“Geralt?”

Geralt was equally confused and surprised. “I… take it we uh… knew each other?” He felt at once awkward, embarrassed, and a bit worried about how intimately they “knew” each other from this past life which still eluded his memory. She was quite beautiful - not altogether unlike the few memories he had of Yennefer, and from the tales told to him, he seemed to have enjoyed the pleasures of several sorceresses in his former life. Thankful that witchers lack the ability to blush, he held a straight face and awaited her reply, which necessitated a telling amount of time to compose.

“Let’s… say I’ve heard of you,” she replied, her dark, manicured eyebrows still creased together in mild confusion. “And that _creature_ is a kayran.”

“A kayran?” Geralt replied skeptically. “Impossible. They don’t grow anywhere near that size.”

“Well, clearly you need to update your bestiary,” she replied, a hint of haughty indignation in her body language. Geralt could smell Triss’s presence somewhere close behind him. He reminded himself to keep his eyes squarely on the sorceress’s face and not allow them to travel downward. It was not an easy task, as her outfit seemed to be made to funnel eyesight directly between her breasts. “A moment ago, I had the good fortune to see it in all its splendor,” the sorceress continued. “I’d have had a much better idea of exactly what manner of kayran it is if these village _bumpkins_ hadn’t scared it off.”

“You ‘ear that, Sosek?” One of the cantankerous villagers blurted, speaking to the retching man, whom no one had yet dared to cross the slime trail to assist. “ _Good fortune_ , she says.”

“I’ll bet the witch summoned the beast, just to ‘ave look at it.” The other man added.

The black-haired sorceress had heard enough. The blue light appeared in her palm again, sizzling audibly with electricity. “I’m beginning to take an interest in what your _chest cavity_ looks like. Perhaps I’ll have a look?”

The man stammered, unable to produce a cohesive word as he backpedaled nervously.

“Take your friends and leave, before a worse fate than the kayran befalls you,” she said sharply. The crowd dispersed in a hurry, leaving Geralt, Triss and the woman alone on the pier. 

“Triss, darling,” she said, pivoting instantly to that odd, almost theatrical tone that mages tend to speak to each other in, “aren’t you going to introduce me? Don’t be rude.”

Triss scoffed as she stepped forward cocking her head slightly before putting a thin veneer of civility over top of her obvious annoyance.

“How inconsiderate of me. Geralt, this is Síle de Tansarville, advisor to the royal court in Kovir."

“And a personal friend, of course,” Síle added with an upside-down smile. “You look dreadful, my dear. Oh, those eyes! Your travels must’ve been harrowing. I have a medicinal balm - it would do _wonders_ for you. We shall have to catch up while you’re in town. But… for now, I must speak with your witcher. I assume you’re here for the reward?”

Geralt narrowed his eyes slightly. “What reward?”  
“Don’t be coy,” she said with a chuckle. “For the kayran, of course. Is that not why you’re here?”

“It’s not, actually,” he said, glancing at Triss.

“Oh,” Síle replied, genuinely surprised. “Well, what on earth brings you all the way out here?”

“We could ask you the same question,” he countered.

“I’m always researching rare alchemical ingredients, as Triss could attest to, so when I heard of a kayran of this scale… well, I simply _had_ to come and investigate it. I must say, to date it has lived up to the tales. As you can see, however, it’s quite dangerous, which is why… if your business will allow, I would very much like your help in slaying the beast.”

“Sorry, no time, “ Geralt answered flatly.

“Are you sure? The Commandant has offered a very generous reward. I’d be willing to split it with you…”

“C’mon, Geralt,” Triss interrupted, grasping his arm softly. “We should be going.” She looked up at him with eyes which raised her suggestion to a command. Geralt new better than to say “no” to that look, and was growing weary of keeping his eyes disciplined anyway. He nodded his head courteously.

“Good luck with the hunt,” he said, turning to leave.

“Consider my offer, witcher,” Síle persisted. “I’ve rented a room at the Inn, on the upper floor, in case you change your mind.”

Triss raised one eyebrow, glancing over her shoulder. “You do know that’s a whorehouse…”

Síle laughed condescendingly. “Oh Triss… your feigned innocence is so amusing. Fifty percent, witcher. Think it over…”

“Dressed like that, you might be mistaken for an employee,” Triss muttered under her breath as they walked away. Geralt chuckled and met her eyes… then casually slipped his arm away from hers. She cringed internally, determined not to let her disappointment show.

“I get the impression you two aren’t exactly friends,” he said after a few more steps.

“I know her, and I don’t trust her,” she said. “And neither should you.”

“That sounds oddly cryptic… and ominous.”

“I’m serious. Something’s not right about her being here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. For now, we should catch up with Roche and Zoltan. And hopefully get some rest for a few minutes.”

The commander and dwarf were back downstairs where they’d been before the interruption, though the room was more densely populated this time.

“Good, you’re back,” Roche said, huffing a tired sigh. “While you were investigating, the men returned. The ship’s been moored - we should head there, tend to wounds and get some rest. We’ve much to do, come morning.”

“Ah - … wait!” Zoltan said, gulping down more fluid before continuing. “As I said before, I’m stayin’ with my cousin, here in town. It isnae a spacious place, but if you’re able, Geralt… I’d— _we’d_ be honored.”

Geralt looked questioningly at Roche, who shrugged his shoulders. “One less mouth to feed on the ship. But don’t get any ideas of running, witcher.”

Geralt nodded toward Zoltan. “The honor is mine.”

“Hold on-“ Triss interjected. “You’re not coming to the ship at all? Are you… sure you don’t need me to look at that wound on your rib? It might need stitches…”

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt answered, looking straight into Triss’s still-bloodshot eyes, which conveyed a blend of consternation and disappointment. “Besides, I never was much for sleeping on boats.”

“…Okay…” Triss said, shrugging her shoulders in defeat. “I… guess we’ll catch up tomorrow.”

“Sure. See you.”

Geralt had a seat across from his old dwarven friend, as Roche and Triss headed off for the ship.

“Is it just me, or do I sense a bit ‘o trouble in paradise?” Zoltan said, glancing in the direction of the staircase. “Are things not good between the two of ye?”

Geralt sighed, not wanting to talk about it. “It’s complicated.”

“Oh?”

“My memory - it started coming back. Only in pieces, but still… enough to remember a lot of things.”

“Like what, if I may ask?”

“Yennefer, among others.”

Zoltan winced. “I see… I see. Well, in that case, you’ll be wantin’ to talk with Dandelion. I wager he’d be giddy as a lassie to tell you all the stories of ‘Geralt of Rivia’ you could stomach this evening.”

“Wait - Dandelion is here, too?” Geralt asked, becoming more concerned that something beyond coincidence was once again afoot.

“Aye, did they not tell ye? Let me finish my mead, and we’ll head over to Gefrin’s house straightaway.”

———————————————————

Geralt was tall by human standards. In most cases, this was an advantage, especially given his profession. As a houseguest in a dwarven home, though, his height presented some challenges. Within his first five minutes inside Gefrin’s home, the witcher had already smacked his head against the rafters twice, elbowed his host in the face inadvertently, and backed into a cupboard, emptying its contents noisily onto the dirt floor. Hoping to avoid any further damage to the home, Geralt eased into a low, homemade chair and struck up a conversation with Zoltan and Dandelion, who heard about Geralt’s entry into town and was waiting there when he and Zoltan arrived.

“Alright, Geralt,” Dandelion began, pulling out a quill and paper. “I want to hear it all! First hand accounts. Ah! This is gonna be amazing! Okay, start with Foltest. How did he _really_ die? Did his children really watch it all happen? What were his last words? I’ll bet they were something noble, like, ‘my son, take up now the burden and responsibility of this great trust that has been placed like a royal mantle upon the shoulders of your forefathers, then to your grand-“

“Dandelion!” Geralt interrupted. “Slow down before you hyperventilate. The real assassin was waiting for us in the monastery, disguised as a monk. He waited for an opportunity when I was across the room, then slit the king’s throat and jumped out the window and into the river. Oh - and he’s a witcher.”

Dandelion sighed demonstratively placing the quill down. “Honestly. Must you always be so taciturn? I need _details_. Sights, sounds, relational intrigue…”

“You’re gonna write it the way you imagine it anyway. Why get in the way with facts?”

“It’s a damned shame you got mixed up in it all, my friend,” Zoltan said, topping off each of their mugs. “Always have had a knack for showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time.… er, no offense meant, of course.

“None taken,” Geralt said. “But, speaking of wrong place at the wrong time… what are you doing here, Dandelion?”

“Writing about the kayran, of course! A huge, mythical beast, as large as a mountain, lurking in the moss-covered waters of a sleepy, unsuspecting hamlet. A beautiful - yet, mysterious - sorceress tracks the monster, plotting with her unnatural, arcane arts to rid the town of it - or, does she seek to control it, and take the town hostage? You see, my fact-oriented friend, _that’s_ a story!”

Geralt was unimpressed. “The kayran just made an appearance three days ago. News travels fast, but not _that_ fast. Why are you really here?”

The bard frowned, huffing and tilting his head slightly. “Is my cover really that bad? Fine, _fine_ , but don’t tell anybody, alright?” He looked around and leaned in to whisper, as if they were surrounded by eavesdroppers. “I’m working as a spy for the Temerians.”

“Right,” Geralt said sarcastically, “And I’m Emhyr var Emreis in a ‘Geralt’ mask.”

“I’m serious!” Dandelion retorted indignantly. “Is it really that hard to believe? Admit it - I do have a knack for digging up dirt and finding intrigue. Why, if gossip were an art, I’d be a grandmaster!”

“I can attest to what he’s blubberin’ about,” Zoltan said with eyes rolled. “‘Spy’ is a… bit of an exaggeration, but aye - they’ve been slippin’ ‘im some coin to report what he hears… an _informant_ , more like it. We’ve been in cahoots, he and I.”

“What’s going on here that the Temerians are so interested in?” Geralt asked. “Surely Iorveth isn’t that much of a concern.”

“Oh no, it actually has nothing to do with the elf,” Dandelion answered. “It’s about Loredo, the Commandant. He’s been skimming more and more profits from merchants, stockpiling supplies, fortifying his river defenses… and hosting very secretive envoys from Kaedwen.”

“Interesting. Know why?”

“Not yet. But I’m hot on his trail. It’s only a matter of time.”

“You know, Dandelion,” Zoltan said, changing the subject, “Geralt has begun regaining his memory. At least, a wee bit of it. Ah, but an important bit. He was, uh… wonderin’ if you’d be able to fill in the gaps, so to speak.”

Geralt cast a glare at Zoltan as Dandelion lit up with excitement. “Me? Tell you tales of the good old days? Well, you couldn’t possibly be in better hands! Where should we begin? The all-nighter with the Striga in a derelict castle? Hunting Villentretenmerth, the last living golden dragon? Ooh - I know! Chasing Dudu the doppler all over Novigrad, then besting him in a duel against your double? Yes, let’s start there! Action! Intrigue! And those women at the Passiflora… never seen anyone so flexible… and creative.”

“Dandelion!” Zoltan half-shouted, having tried unsuccessfully to give him nonverbal cues to desist. “It’s-“

“Yennefer,” Geralt interrupted, clinching his eyes in a grimace of resignation. The conversation was going to happen, whether he wanted it or not. “I remember her, but only in flashes. But… even in those… the emotions are strong. I know she was important to me.”

“Important?” Dandelion replied. “Are honeybees important to lilacs? Is liquor important to dwarves? Is a lute important to yours truly? She was bound to you by fate, hearts destined for each other, no matter how many times you both wrecked it all and walked away. Important? Yes, she was _very_ important. Haven’t you heard my ballads about the two of you? I hear they’re widely covered…”

“Not in Vizima,” Geralt said, feeling once again the uncomfortable pinch of guilt at the juxtaposition of his “history” with Yennefer and the way he felt at present about Triss.

“Hmm, good point,” the bard said, nodding his head. “Well, I can tell you _all_ about Yennefer. I literally wrote the book. Or, well, it’s technically a work in progress, but I digress. What would you like to know?”

Geralt thought about it for a moment. “First of all, if she was _that_ important to me, why are you all just now telling me about her? I had to ask Triss directly. She told me a lot, though somehow I doubt it was everything.”

“Whoa-ho-hoooo, my friend!” Dandelion blurted out, leaning back and waiving his hands. “You asked _Triss_ to tell you about your lifelong love? Have you lost your mind? Oh, wait - bad turn of phrase, sorry. Are you crazy? Let me fill you in on a little secret, from someone who keeps several irons in the fire from time to time. Never, I repeat, _never_ ask one lover about the other one. Oh! You’ve _got_ to tell me how that conversation went. Did she throw shoes? Blow a hole in the roof? No wait - this is the doe-eyed lovestruck version of Triss Merigold. Did she break down in tears? Run out of the room to disguise her-“

“Dandelion!”

“Sorry.”

“It was… a very uncomfortable conversation,” Geralt conceded slowly. “But enough about that. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Right. Why didn’t we tell you earlier? Well, I can’t speak for Triss and those witcher friends of yours in Kaer Morhen. For myself, I just figured you knew, and had chosen to let the wound heal.”

“What wound?” Geralt asked.

“Why, the death of your soulmate! I must say, if I ever had someone so intertwined with my heartstrings, and she perished… even speaking her name would be more than I could bear.”

“She’s not dead, Dandelion,” Geralt replied firmly.

“But, I thought…”

“I can feel it. Whatever happened to her - to us… if I escaped, I’ve gotta believe she did too.”

A devilish grin slowly crept onto the bard’s face as he nodded in understanding. “Geralt, you philandering wolf! It seems rubbing shoulders with the great ladies man himself finally soaked in.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Geralt asked, face contorted in quizzical annoyance.

“All this time, I thought you and Triss… well, I figured you’d just grieved and moved on. I mean, the last time you thought Yennefer was dead, you kinda did the same thing. Wild, passionate, _sexual_ affair with an exotically beautiful sorceress…”

A stomach-turning fear suddenly gripped the witcher. “This other woman,” he said, with an even tone disguising his anxiety, “she wasn’t Síle de Tansarville, was she?”

Dandelion burst into jovial guffaws. “Boy, you _do_ get around, don’t you? No, I was referring to the bewitching lady of Toussant, Fringilla Vigo. Though, if you did bed Síle and not tell me about it? Well, that’s practically a betrayal! Best friends deserve to know these things.”

Geralt breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. “Fringilla, then. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Triss never mentioned her, either. So, then… do you have any idea how Síle and I would’ve known each other in the past? Something odd’s going on with her.”

“You saw her, then? I’m _wildly_ curious to know what she’s really doing here. Suspicious timing, to be sure. As to how you might know her… I’m not really sure. I imagine you met her at that fateful summit of mages on Thannedd. You know - before the conclave was destroyed, and you lost Ciri, and…”

“Ciri was there too?” Geralt interrupted, feeling a sudden tightness in his chest at the mention of her name.

“Oh yes. Well, I mean, not at the summit, just in town with you. Do you really not remember? What am I saying, of course you don’t. Don’t worry, you told me all about it. How Yennefer paraded you around all her wizard-friends like a trophy. How you overheard Keira Metz plotting to seduce you, just to frustrate Yennefer… how your kiss on Triss’s cheek sent your raven-haired lover wild with envy, and she gave Triss such a verbal lashing that she ran out of the room in tears. Oh- and all those shimmering, sheer blouses the sorceresses wore to display their feminine assets… oh yes, I remember those tales well. You know, I should really write a ballad about that.”

Geralt wanted desperately to remember Ciri and Yennefer, but he was powerless to recall even a glimpse of the events Dandelion described.

“So, you talked with Síle, I take it,” Dandelion continued. “Did she give any clues as to what she might be doing here?”

“She said she’s hunting the kayran,” Geralt replied, “for ingredients. But Triss is very suspicious, which makes me suspicious. Síle asked me to help her fight it, but honestly, I just don’t have the time. I need to focus on catching this assassin that Iorveth’s protecting. And besides that, if she _is_ up to no good, I’m not sure going to her room after dark is the best idea.”

“She invited you to her room?” Dandelion asked, suddenly excited. “You have to go! A-and take me with you!”

“What? Why?”

“Why? There’s more than one way to learn guarded information,” he said, conjuring up his best “smolder” face and raising his eyebrows.

Zoltan erupted in raucous laughter, slapping his friend heartily on the back. “You and the sorceress? Ho-ho! Ya’ best stick to human lassies. It’s a wee bit harder to dodge lightning bolts than pots and pans.”

Dandelion frowned, folding his arms. “You doubt my abilities, sir?”

“I’m not going,” Geralt said firmly. “If you want to go it alone, I guess I can’t stop you. You are an adult. Sort of.”

“Well! Maybe I will…” the bard retorted, puffing his chest up.

“Oh, come now! It was all in jest,” Zoltan said, still chuckling. “Ye must at least stay for dinner. Gefrin’s got a goose roastin’ in the oven. He’s not much of a baker, but he makes a mean goose stew. The neck’s the best part. Oh… I can already taste it! T’would be a shame to miss out on it.”

Dandelion huffed and pursed his lips, eyebrows drawn in in contemplation for a moment. “I _would_ hate to miss out on a good meal…”

“That’s the spirit!” Zoltan said, rising from his seat. “We’ve still a lot of catching up to do. I’ll pour another round.”

Zoltan was right. There was a lot of catching up, indeed. The three sat around the table for hours, feasting, drinking, laughing, playing Gwent, and then drinking some more. Geralt gave his account of Foltest’s assassination in detail. Zoltan described the growing persecution of nonhumans in Flotsam, fomented by Loredo’s prejudice rhetoric and lackadaisical leadership. Dandelion talked about a great many, mostly disconnected, things, but among them mentioned Loredo’s reluctance to pursue the Scoia’tael, choosing instead to allocate his men to protecting whatever it was he was hoarding in his fortress. All in all, it was a cathartic time for the witcher, though due to its longevity, one which came at the expense of a decent night’s sleep. As a result, Geralt was dazed and hardly coherent when he was wrenched out of restless sleep by an urgent pounding on the door. He rose from the dirt floor, groaning as he rotated a sore shoulder, and cracked open the small, wooden door to see Vernon Roche waiting, impatiently as always.

“Have you just awakened?” He asked, more as a judgement than a legitimate question. “By the gods, it’s half past nine!”

“…Mmmhmm.”

The Blue Stripes commander shook his head disapprovingly. “It seems our tactics at the pier yesterday have aroused the suspicions of the Commandant, Loredo. He’s requested our presence at his fortress tonight.”

“Well, that’s peachy,” Geralt croaked, scratching his now-stubbly chin.

“I’ve got my men scanning the forest for clues as to Iorveth’s whereabouts. I’ll be joining them momentarily. Can you find your way to the fort?”

Geralt shrugged. “Can’t be that hard.”

“Good. I’ll meet you there at eight pm sharp. And for gods’ sake, clean yourself up.”


	5. Indecent Proposal

The fortress of Flotsam Harbor was the oldest building in the village by a wide margin, dating back several hundred years to a time when it served as a military checkpoint for vessels passing along the Pontar River. Flotsam was situated in a strategically important position, within twenty miles of the borders of four great northern kingdoms - Temeria, Redania, Kaedwen and Aedirn. As such, it had a long history as a contested territory, passing from one kingdom to another several times over the years. This historical diversity was evident in the construction of the fortress itself, which sat upon a rocky hill, with a commanding view of the river in both directions. An outer stone wall, formed with dry-stack sandstones, ran a seamless perimeter around a much older, castle-style fortress, hewn from large limestones. Near the western end of the compound was a small, three-story tower, seemingly older still, moss-covered with oddly-shaped stone stacks patched with thick mortar seems. Geralt had the opportunity to muse on all these seemingly banal details because for once, he was someplace earlier than Vernon Roche. The commander finally arrived (still five minutes early), and after a succinct and formal greeting, they stepped up to the heavy wooden door, reaching twelve feet high and bookended by bored-looking pikemen.

“Get on down the road, newcomers,” the one on the right said with lackluster enthusiasm. “No access to the fort.”

“We’ve an appointment,” Roche replied, folding his arms. “Vernon Roche and Geralt of Rivia.”

The pikeman lowered his eyebrows, gazing at the ground in concentration. “Loredo didn’t say nothing about a, uh… what’s that name again?”

“Oh wait!” The other guard interrupted. “Yeah, the witcher, right? I seen them eyes, slanty-like. Commandant’s expecting you. Right this way… oh - but you’ll have to leave the swords at the gate.”

Geralt frowned, narrowing his eyes, and paused for a moment. A witcher’s sword is his life, and as such, one is never keen to part with it. Roche cleared his throat demonstratively, shooting a glare his way.

“Fine,” Geralt said coldly, unhooking his sword strap and handing the weapons over to the vocabulary-challenged guard. The two of them were ushered into the large courtyard, where for all intents and purposes, a party was going on. A large bonfire raged, encircled by drunk-sounding men in sloppy uniforms singing an unfamiliar song. A few paces away sat a large wooden table piled high with whole, roasted game and bowls of fruit. A half dozen men sat at one end, lazily biting meat off of bones, while at the other end, a pair of musclebound brutes arm wrestled in front of a handful of spectators. Mingling through the crowd of men were a handful of young women, wearing the sort of minimalist clothing that left very little to the imagination. Prostitutes, without a doubt, plying their trade. Roche took very little note of any of this, being immediately incensed by the presence of a large piece of artillery. As soon as the guards were out of earshot, he pulled Geralt aside, whispering furiously.

“A bloody _ballista_? Aimed at the port? What the hell is he doing with this?”

Geralt looked at the weapon and shrugged. “What’s the problem?”  
“Do you know how difficult these have been to come by since the war? Every one we can spare has been deployed to protect the southern border, and rightly so. I don’t trust the Black Ones to stay on their side of the Yaruga any more than I trust those whores’ tits to stay in their blouses. We need artillery to keep invaders at bay, and here some drunken fool’s got his hands on one? Have you any idea what one of these could do to a ship?”

“I could imagine.”

“Sink it, Geralt. Sink it with one blow. And… here, let me show you something.” He led Geralt over to the platform where it rested, and they looked out over the southern wall. Roche pointed at the river. “Do you see… that? That’s our ship. Right where the bugger told us to put it. Right in the goddamn crosshairs of this monstrosity he has no business possessing.”

“Well, unless you plan on pissing him off further, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Don’t be daft. This is a trading post, Geralt, not a military fort. Something’s not right here. Furthermore…” He scanned the crowdskeptically, before continuing, “this group of cunts could hardly be expected to defend the town from drunk lumberjacks, much less Iorveth and his archers. What the bloody hell does he have this many men in uniform for in the first place, and why are they in here carousing instead of purging the forest of those Scoia’tael vermin?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Geralt asked, nodding toward the tower. The two of them made their way through the noisy crowd of men, declining a very hands-on sales pitch from one of the prostitutes, and arrived at the base of Loredo’s office and personal residence - the only place inside the walls where guards seemed to be _guarding_ something.

“We’re here to see Loredo,” Roche said curtly, still angry about the ballista.

“Gonna be a while, mates,” the guard replied, leaning his weight on the shaft of his pike. “His previous appointment is running long. Have a seat, grab some ale, squeeze an ass. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Geralt and Roche stepped aside, walking around the corner of the building to find a discrete place to further discuss the ballista, when they noticed something odd. Near the back of the building, a pair of men stood guard in front of a gated wooden wall, which, by the look of it, was freshly-constructed. Just visible over the top of the planks were several large thatched roofs. Roche narrowed his eyes, spying the structures suspiciously.

“Wonder what the Commandant is so keen to keep locked up back there?” He said quietly. “More heavy weapons, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“I think we should have a look.”

Geralt stretched uneasily. “Remember that thing I said about not pissing off the man with the ballista pointed at your ship?”

“It won’t be a problem if we don’t get caught. I’ll create a distraction; you scale the wall and find out what’s in the warehouses.”

Before the witcher could mount a rebuttal, Roche walked off, barking some orders to the men - whom he technically outranked - about giving a report on Scoia’tael movement.

 _Damn_ , Geralt thought, looking for a place to scale the wall. _Okay, I guess we’ll do it your way, Roche_. With the guards distracted, he crept through the shadows behind some overgrown flowering bushes and deftly climbed up the side of the stone perimeter wall, dropping down onto a rock outcropping and reentering the compound on the other side of the palisade wall. Three additional guards patrolled the restricted area in repetitive patterns, crossing back and forth among the large, windowless structures they’d spotted earlier. Roche’s intuition was spot-on.

Waiting for the right moment, Geralt crept around to the back of one of the buildings, climbing a stack of crates and leaping up to grab hold of the corner of the roof. With no small exertion of upper body strength, he lifted himself up to the roofline, peering through a small gap in the hastily-constructed seam to view the contents inside. Swords, shields, barrels of wine and oil, bolts of fabric, wagon wheels, silver candelabras, bushels upon bushels of grain… it was a treasure trove. He silently lowered himself to the ground, content to head back to the courtyard when he heard a familiar, unexpected voice emanating from the nearby tower. Síle de Tansarville. From his vantage point, he couldn’t quite make out her words, and though he was wary of adding any additional risk to his mission, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see just what Síle was up to. After waiting for another round of guard movement, he snuck across the stone-floored yard and found a dark corner near the base of the tower. From there, he could hear every word and nuance.

“You forget who you’re talking to, Commandant,” the sorceress said sharply.

“You must think I’m an idiot,” a throaty, male voice retorted with a chuckle.

“I cannot help myself. You take guardsmen off the streets to guard carpets, fabrics and spices pilfered from merchants. Do you have any grasp of the responsibility that rests with you?”

“Don’t teach an old man to piss. I’ve ruled Flotsam for years.”

“Flotsam is ruled by a fear of Iorveth. That fear rules even you.”

“I’ve made my demands perfectly clear,” the man growled.

“Yes, like a crying babe deprived of its rattle. In time, Commandant, they’ll hang you by the neck from a roadside tree like a regular bandit. And rightly so, for that is what you are.”

“Oh, your time will come too, sorceress. They’ll pile kindling at your feet, while the little kiddies gather with snacks in hand to watch you burn.”

“Enough. Clearly, fear has confused you. I must be going. Think over what I said and give your answer before it’s too late.”

Geralt quickly snuck back into the courtyard the way he’d come earlier, finding Roche just in time to be summoned by the man guarding the door.

“Cutting it a bit close, witcher,” Roche muttered under his breath, as they walked up the wooden stair care to the second-floor entry.

“We’ll talk… later,” he replied.

“Master witcher, Loredo will see you now,” the guard said. “ _Only_ you.”

“What?” Roche snapped. “Clearly you’ve made a mistake.”

"No mistake,” the guard replied with a yawn. “Just followin’ orders. ‘the witcher only,’ says the big man. You, sir, may wait in the courtyard.”

Roche looked Geralt directly in the eyes. “Tell me everything,” he said intensely. “Every word, every awkward pause, every eyebrow raised. Understand?”  
“Sure,” he replied with a sigh. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Lead on.”

A layer of dust clung to nearly every surface inside the tower, illuminated poorly by flickering sconces set to the posts of narrow hallways. The wooden floor creaked loudly as Geralt rounded the corner, nearly running into Síle, whose black-lined eyes widened in surprise.

“Geralt? What are you doing here?”

“Síle,” he acknowledged with a courteous nod. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

He could sense the gears turning in her head as her expression shifted ever so slightly from surprise to suspicion. “Well, whatever it is, I wish you luck. He’s in a foul mood."

“Why?”

“We’ll talk another time… and definitely elsewhere,” she said with a mild eye roll before continuing down the hall, high heels clicking rhythmically as she went.

The guard escorted Geralt around another corner and into a large, open central room, about twenty feet across and nearly thirty feet long. Shields and swords hung on the walls, along with the occasional tapestry and one lonely buck head. At the far end of the room, bracketed by iron-latticed windows sat a dark wooden desk, with a blackened chandelier overhead and a threadbare decorative rug underneath. The man behind the desk was heavyset, with a shaved head that was nearly spherical. He looked to be in his early forties, well-fed but not particularly in good health, while his decaying teeth and red-lined eyelids betrayed his regular usage of fisstech.

“Ah, witcher, have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the high-backed chair across the desk from him. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“No trouble,” Geralt replied, sitting and leaning in on his elbow. “I imagine Síle de Tansarville is the sort of person who expects time to adjust to her schedule."

“So you saw her, then? Made up like a whore on parade day. They think they can do anything, those sorceresses. Pain in the arse, if you ask me.” Loredo leaned in, interlocking his fingers as his thick, gold necklace dangled just above his rotund belly. “I heard what happened at La Valette Castle. You know your name’s on a warrant?”

“A minor misunderstanding,” the witcher said unflinchingly. “One which should be cleared up soon. If that was your purpose calling me in, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.”

The commandant’s mouth grinned widely underneath menacing eyes. “I beg to differ, master witcher. You see, I’m the law in this town. One snap of my fingers, and you’d be on a boat to Vizima.”

“Somehow I doubt you called me in here just to arrest me. What do you want?”

“Direct, eh? Fair enough. See, I’ve got a problem with my harbor…”

“The kayran.”

“Yes. Monstrous son of a bitch has put me in quite a bind. I hired the witch to rid me of it, but four days on the job and she’s done nothing. When I heard a professional was in town, well… better to bet on two horses than on one. By the way - why _are_ you here? Man like you who escaped the dungeons should’ve been halfway to Zerrikania by now.”

“I’m pursuing the kingslayer so I can clear my name. He’s taken refuge with your local Scoia’tael tribe.”

“Iorveth’s group, eh? Well, then we have some common interests. Those pointy-ears’ve been a thorn in my arse for too long. Perhaps with you and Roche’s Blue Stripes, we can finally disinfect the forest. Nothing I’d love more than to string up every last one of ’em by their bow strings.”

“You’ve got a large enough militia. If they’re such a problem, why haven’t you rooted them out already?”

Loredo huffed a chuckle, reaching below his desk to pull out a flask which he used to fill a mug with some kind of strong liquor. “In case you didn’t notice on your way in, Flotsam is plagued with a _diverse_ population. I take my men hunting squirrels in the forest, and the city elves and dwarves would burn the damn fort down by the time we were back. No, I can’t spare the men.”

“You think your own citizens would turn against you?”

“Does shit stink? They’re _nonhumans_. Of course they’d turn on me.”

Geralt did his best to restrain his frustration at the man’s bigotry. “You do realize I’m a nonhuman.”

“You? _Please_. White hair and cat eyes, sure, but when push comes to shove, you’re a human like any other. It’s why I know I can trust your help. But enough of that. First things first. You are going to rid me of that beast, as quickly as possible.”

“I’m busy.”

“You’ll make allowances in your schedule. That, or you’ll be on your way back to Vizima in chains. Listen, witcher, I’ll paint it clearly for you. Slay the beast, and I’ll pretend I’ve never heard about that warrant. Hell, I’ll even offer you my protection while you’re in town. Once the port is open, we’ll hunt Iorveth and his bandits together. And just to sweeten the pot, I’ll dismiss the charges against your dwarven friend.”

“And if I refuse?”

“They want you alive, but I’ll bet I could still get a tidy reward for sending your head back to the capital. Do we have an understanding?”

Geralt stared at the grinning commandant for an uncomfortably long time before speaking. _I could probably get a tidy reward to send your round head to Iorveth,_ he thought. _Not the wise play, though._ “Fine.”

“I knew you’d see it my way. Out you go, then. Hop to it. Time is money - I need that port open right away. Guard!”

The pikeman appeared on the far side of the room, escorting the frustrated witcher back to the courtyard, which was even rowdier than when he’d left it.

“Your friend left a few minutes ago. I suggest you see yourself out, master witcher,” the guard advised.

He heeded the man’s instruction, collecting his sword at the front gate and walking to Roche, who leaned, arms crossed, against the wall thirty or so yards away.

“Report,” Roche said, eyeing the fortress carefully to be sure no one was watching or listening in.

“He’s skimming merchant boats, to be sure. No artillery, but plenty of weapons, textiles, food. From the size of his stockpile, he probably seized entire ships.”

Roche pressed his lips together. “It’s as we suspected, then. What does he intend to do with all of it?”

“Well, he’s definitely not decorating his place with it. Beyond that, who knows? That’s your domain.”

“Fine, I’ll look into it. What else?”

“Before he met with me, he was speaking with the sorceress from the pier - Síle de Tansarville-“

“Yes, Triss told me about her. She doesn’t trust her.”

“Maybe for good reason. I overheard part of a conversation with them. They have some kind of deal in place, and it’s about more than the kayran.”

“Let me guess - that’s also my domain to figure out,” Roche said with a sarcastic sigh.

“Maybe not,” Geralt replied, swatting a mosquito from his neck. “That meeting with Loredo - he wants me to kill the kayran, or else he’ll turn me in for the bounty on my head.”

“Well, that’s grand. By the time you’ve slain it, our killer will be halfway through Aedirn.”

“Not necessarily. There’s something keeping him here - whether Iorveth or something else, I can’t say. Loredo pledged to help us track down Iorveth once his precious harbor is safe. That is, if you trust a fisstech addict who can barely keep his own town from revolting.”

“I’d rather not work with that asshole, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Iorveth and his men have an advantage on us in this terrain. We won’t be able to dislodge them without his help.”

“I still think Zoltan is our best play. Loredo wrapped him into the deal, too. Once the Kayran is dead, he’ll dismiss the charges against him. Which means he can set up the deal with Iorveth. And if we get to Iorveth…“

“We get to our killer,” Roche said, standing up straight and brushing the dust off his coat. “A deal with the devil it is, then. I’m going to get some sleep. And you… you’d best set about killing that beast.”

———————————————————

The wood planks creaked and swayed beneath Geralt’s feet as he took the decrepit outdoor staircase to the guest quarters above the Flotsam Inn. Below him, drunken carousing was in full swing, with beer, urine and vomit soaking the muddy street and scenting the humid air in equal proportions. Unsure which of the series of exterior-facing doors belonged to Síle, he knocked on the first he came to. The crooked-hanging door cracked open before he’d even retracted his hand, with an attractive but hard-looking middle aged woman occupying the small gap between door and frame.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” the woman said in a deep, hushed alto. Her heavily-pigmented eyes sized up the witcher from beneath a large, burgundy beret. “Don’t recognize you - what are ya in the mood for this evening? Human? Elven? Maybe both? You… look like the ‘lean and athletic’ type, but if you’re in the mood for ‘soft and voluptuous-“

“I’m… looking for the guest rooms,” Geralt interrupted, taking note ofa young elven woman in the background who was hurriedly slinking a lace gown over her head.

“Sure, sure,” the older woman - ostensibly the madame - said with a smile. “But if you’re not in a hurry, why not enjoy some fine company first?”

Geralt pressed his lips together in a tight, but courteous smile and nodded. “No thanks. Just the guest room.”

The madame waved off the elf behind her and narrowed the opening of the door a bit further. “Very well. Another time, perhaps. We have a few guests in the rental rooms this evening. Who might you be seeking?”

“Síle de Tansarville.”

“Oh, the sorceress?” She chuckled, leaning her eyes and head to the right. “You only missed her by one door.”

“Thank you kindly,” Geralt said, stepping back and knocking on the appropriate door this time.

“Come in, Geralt,” Síle’s voice chimed from behind the door. “It’s unlocked.”

Slightly surprised by her intuition, he opened the door and stepped into the modest, plaster-walled room. It was roughly a twelve foot by twelve foot square with no windows, and gaps wide enough beneath the floor planks for light from the busy tavern below to create tiny, volumetric beams in the fine, dusty air. The sorceress was seated with her back turned to the wall when Geralt walked in, methodically brushing her long, black hair with a silver brush that glistened with every stroke.

“You may have a seat, if you’d like,” she said, gesturing toward the feather bed. “Caring for hair like mine tends to be an arduous process, and I really must finish. I won’t be long.”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

“Very well, suit yourself.”

There was silence in the room for an awkward moment, which for a witcher, was anything but silent. Below him, the innkeeper took an order for a bowl of soup, while two dwarves argued about someone named “Moiran,” and whether she had brown eyes or hazel. Across the thin wall that separated him from the brothel, the purring and lascivious whispers of the ladies mingled with sounds of satisfaction from their patrons, along with the cliche squeaking of bed frames subjected to forceful repetitive movements. The sounds of debauchery, accompanied by the sorceress’s slender, youthful figure - which was easily discerned through the thin silk nightgown covering it - were all a bit over-the-top for Geralt’s taste, so he instead focused on the rhythmic scraping and swooshing of the brush against Síle’s waist-length hair.

“I suspected you’d come to see me,” she said after a minute or so, mercifully ending the quiet as she opened a small wooden chest and placed her brush carefully in the velvet-lined interior, “but to be honest, I had assumed you’d wait until morning. I don’t usually entertain guests in this state. I do hope you’ll forgive my appearance.” She turned around gracefully, scooping her hair over one shoulder and crossing her legs, which caused the gown, which was tied together at her waist, to part well above her knee. Even her “unpresentable” appearance had an element of careful presentation to it.

“Didn’t want to lose any time,” Geralt said with a shrug, electing not to comment on her appearance, which, even without makeup, was still uncommonly pleasant. “Loredo asked me to help you with the kayran.”

She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head slightly. “Help me, or replace me?”

“Makes no difference to him - he just wants the beast dead.”

“And why are you suddenly so keen on slaying it?”

Geralt felt the faintest tingle in his medallion, a hint that Síle may be reaching out to scan his thoughts. He’d learned a thing or two about concealing them, and put his tactics to use.

“Let’s just say he and I have more common interests that I realized.”

Síle huffed a single chuckle, leaning forward and resting her chin on her fist with eyes that smiled deviously. “That wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with this kingslayer you’re pursuing, would it?” Her change in posture afforded a teasing glimpse at the outline of her breasts, which, although much more modestly-proportioned without the benefit of a corset underneath them, were nonetheless shapely. Geralt was not a man easily distracted by such tactics, but neither was he oblivious to them. He looked directly into her eyes before giving his reply.

“Word travels fast in a small town.”

“You’ve no idea, my dear. Let me guess - he’s blackmailing you, is that it?”

“Why the interest? I thought you were just here for ingredients.”

“I’m a _courtesan_ , Geralt. Such things always interest me. But… if you’d rather not talk about it, we can get right down to business.”

“If I’m gonna help you, I’ll need to know everything you know about the kayran. Why is it here, how did it grow so large, what are its habits and patterns…”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You ask _me_? You’re the professional killer.”

“And you’ve been on the contract for four days without making progress,” he fired back, straight-faced. “Surely you’ve learned something.”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” she said, reaching to the small table behind her and pulling out a glass vile containing a grayish liquid. “Like other kayrans, it produces a venomous mucus on its tentacles, only this one is far more potent. Lethal, actually.” She handed it to him, and he swirled it around a bit in the vile to examine it. “You’ll need that for an antidote.”

“Any tips on brewing it?”

“Triss will know what to do,” she said with one eyebrow raised. “She always did have a talent for alchemy.”

“I take it you know each other well.”

“Of course! Has she really not mentioned me?”

“No.”

“Hmph! Well, I must say, I’m mildly offended. She and I go far back. Granted, we’ve never been especially close, but I should think close enough to warrant bringing up from time to time. She was always a jealous one, though… whether you were casting your gaze toward Yennefer… or Fringilla. Hmm… speaking of which, I must say I’m surprised she’s not here with you. I assumed that the two of you were traveling as a couple, but-”

“Let’s stick to the kayran,” he interrupted, simultaneously intrigued by and concerned with the amount of detail she seemed to know about him. “You wanted my help. Do you have a plan?”

“Hmm… sensitive subject, is it? Very well, then. We can stick to business. I do have a plan - a simple one. I have discerned the beast’s lair. It’s a cove, a full hour’s walk from the town. We will travel there together, I will lure it out of the water, and you will kill it.”

“And just how do you intend to do that?”

“Geralt, please. I do not need to hear the details on how you intend to strike the brute with your sword. It is enough that a witcher says he will kill it. You are a professional, and so am I. Trust me.”

“Fair enough,” Geralt replied, folding his arms. He did not trust her. He made no attempt to hide that fact, and she seemed undaunted by it. “When do you intend to carry this out? I’ll need some time to prepare the antidote.”

“As soon as you’re ready. I’m eager to get my hands on that specimen.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said, trying without success to glean anything from her expression. Both were hiding something, but were too adept at concealing it to be found out.

“Well, if there’s nothing else you need to know, I suggest we adjourn this meeting for the night. I need my beauty sleep, after all.”

“I think I’ve got everything I need for now. I’ll come find you once I’m ready.”

“I’ll be here. Although, if you don’t mind, come during the day next time, when I’m properly dressed. And do say ‘hello’ to Triss for me.”

Geralt paused for a moment after leaving Síle’s room, heaving a long, heavy sigh as he leaned on the railing of the second floor walkway. _Two days in this mosquito hell and I’m actually further away from the killer. And now I get to fight a mutant kayran with a partner who may or may not be trying to help me. Great. Just great. Let’s just get this over with. Morning can’t come quickly enough._


	6. The Kayran

The morning did not come quickly for the witcher. On the contrary - there were stretches through the night when he was unsure whether time was moving forward at all. Zoltan and Gefrin were both snoring loudly by the time he arrived at their house, so he crept in and stretched his body out in between the table and the hearth, which was the only place in the diminutive house where he seemed to fit. Sleep eluded him like a crumb being fished fom a bucket of water. At first, he blamed it on the cramped space. Then it was the discomfort of the wounds on his back - which had still not fully healed. After that, he cursed at the inescapable, humid heat which persisted well after dark, the roaring of the dueling snorers in the next room, and the mosquitos, which had somehow followed him into the house, leaving him no respite from their incessant biting. Deep down, though, Geralt knew why he couldn’t sleep, and after running out of excuses, he finally relented and let the thoughts take shape in his mind.

“Trust me.” Síle’s words echoed in his head. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust Bernard Loredo. He didn’t trust Vernon Roach nor his Blue Stripes, the madame at the brothel nor Gefrin, his host. Ever since awakening in Kaer Morhen without his memory, Geralt had found it difficult to trust anyone. This was compounded by the fact that, as an amnesiac, he was utterly dependent on other people’s accounts of his own history and the general state of the world. He felt, especially in those early days, as one would after awakening in a strange place with no recollection of how they got there. For Geralt, it was as if that feeling of sudden, unsettling disorientation never fully went away.

Throughout those early days and up until very recently, the one person in his life he _did_ trust was Triss Merigold. In a world of dizzying change, Triss had always been the constant. From dropping everything and rushing to Kaer Morhen to nurse him back to health, to fighting by his side during the Salamandra crisis, to leaving her home and going on the run with him as a fugitive, Triss had always been by his side. Lying awake in the Flotsam heat, Geralt realized that he was no longer accustomed to sleeping alone. Literally and metaphorically, this was the crux of the insomnia. He missed the feel of her skin against his, the warm, relaxing scent of her hair on his pillow. He missed the frank, honest discourse where he could talk about things like his distrust of Síle or his frustration at Loredo’s coercive tactics… but they were gone for the same reason that her physical presence beside him was. He no longer trusted Triss. _If she kept so much about Yennefer from me_ , he wondered, becoming gradually annoyed by the lack of symmetry in the thatch pattern in the ceiling above him, _what else might she be keeping from me? What is it about Síle that bothers her so much? Has she been by my side because she’s in love with me, or because she’s leveraging me for some other purpose?_ As the hours waned on, Geralt no longer wished to think on such things, but the thoughts simply wouldn’t stop bubbling up to his conscious, even persisting in the restless, dreamy sleep he finally passed in and out of before morning. As the first glimpses of light began to creep in through the window, he gave up on the notion of sleep, certain of one thing. Trust issues or not, he wanted Triss’s opinion, assistance, and nearness.

———————————————————

The morning sun was still low in the sky, casting blinding beams through the gaps in the towering trunks as Geralt stepped out past the tree line and made his way across the final thirty yards to the Blue Stripes’ ship. A makeshift ramp connected the deck of the ship to the rocky soil at the edge of the riverbed, shifting under his weight as he climbed aboard.

“Look alive - witcher aboard!” A man shouted over his shoulder, as Geralt adjusted to the gradual, rocking surface beneath him. “If you’re looking for the commander,” the man said to him, “he’s gone out with a scouting party. They left before dawn.”

“Actually, I’m here to speak with Triss. The sorceress… Is she here?”  
“Aye, she’s not yet graced us with her presence this morning,” he said with a thick layer of sarcasm. “Shall I go and fetch her for you?”

“No need,” he replied. “I’ll see myself to her room.” Geralt climbed below deck, crossing a wide, low-ceiling chamber filled with dingy canvas hammocks, and tapped on an unassuming door at the rear of the vessel.

“Triss? It’s me. Can I come in?”

He heard a scuffle, then a groggy voice reply. “Geralt?”

“Yeah.”

“Um… okay, wait, just-“

Ignoring her instructions, he opened the door and let himself in.

“I said _wait_ ,” she protested, still sleepy. “I haven’t done a bit of makeup, my hair’s a wreck…”

“Relax,” he interrupted. Makeup or not, she was still beautiful. Disarmingly so. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

She rolled her eyes, stifling a yawn. “That doesn’t make it better. Why are you here so early? Is everything alright?”

“I need your help. And… I wanted to talk.”

“Sure. Um… could you give me a minute. Or, a few, actually?”

“Triss…” He said, half-voice, half-sigh, “you look… it’s really not necessary.”

“A few minutes. I _insist_. And let’s get off this ship. I’m dying in here.”

“Alright,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll wait for you by the ramp.”

A “few minutes” in the parlance of a sorceress making herself presentable could reliably stretch well over an hour, which, in Geralt’s mind, was a likely explanation for the commando’s mild ire for Triss. Especially juxtaposed with Roche’s stringent time-consciousness, it was a recipe for mutual frustration. The witcher waited, somewhat patiently, at the bottom of the ramp, and was relieved when Triss appeared after only fifteen minutes. Her hair was tied up loosely into two matching spheres on the back of either side of her head, and though she had clearly applied makeup to accentuate her eyes, she had a much more “natural” look than what Geralt was accustomed to. He liked it.

“Feel better?” He asked with a teasing smile, as he extended a hand to help her off the ramp and onto the shoreline.

“You men will never understand,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “Thanks for your patience.”

“Where would you like to go?”

“Somewhere with shade… and that doesn’t smell like sweaty feet.”

Geralt noticed that while Triss was as undeviatingly attractive as ever, she smelled very _un_ -Triss-like, which was an oddity. “Have you had breakfast? We could talk over fried eggs at the inn…”

Triss shrugged slightly. “Sure.”

“Your eyes -“

“Do they still look bad?” She interrupted, brows furrowed in disappointment.

“No, not bad,” Geralt replied awkwardly, “just… still affected from the other day. Are you feeling better?”

“I’m fine. Thanks for noticing,” she said coldly, nodding toward the path. “Shall we?”

The two set off into the forest, silently at first, which only accentuated the underlying tension between them. Geralt made the first foray into conversation, hoping to bring some levity. “So, Roche’s men seem a bit… unrefined. How are you holding up sharing a ship with a bunch of soldiers?”

“Splendidly,” she replied, with something between a chuckle and a scoff. “I know every joke about shit that anyone’s ever thought up, I’ve learned to burp out the official title of the Emperor of Nilfgaard without reaching for a beer… oh, and I’m perpetually ‘late’ for everything. Shorty’s told me all about his sixteen children - all named after temerian troop divisions, and about how his nickname has nothing to do with his manhood. I feel like I’m living with two dozen adolescents. It’s… a regular paradise.”

“No wonder you’re in such a great mood.”

She yawned and stretched. “Stepping right out of Foltest’s court to a floating barracks is a bit of a culture shock. In fairness, they’re good people, just a bit crass. One of them even proposed to me.”

“Oh? Who’s the brave man?”

“You wouldn’t know him. Besides, he was so beet-faced when the others started teasing him about it - best to leave him anonymous.”

“Well, whoever he was, he clearly has good taste. Soldiers don’t normally travel with someone like you. I’m sure there are two dozen sets of eyes that stay glued to you night and day.”

“Oh, Ves gets most of the ogling from the boys. If she _had_ a sense of modesty once upon a time, it must’ve been broken. Besides, I ran away in such a hurry, I had to leave most of my makeup and hair products behind. I haven’t washed my hair in days, I smell like wet towels and seaweed… it’s just as well. I’d really rather not be drooled over.”

“Well, they’re blind, then. There’s no version of you that isn’t beautiful.”

She stopped for a moment, turning to look at him with sweat-glistened brows that conveyed confusion, rather than gratitude. “Thanks. You’re wrong… but thanks.”

They walked silently for a while, lost in thought until the city walls came into view. “So, you said you needed my help with something,” Triss said, slowing her pace.

“Yes. I need your help brewing a potion,” Geralt replied, pulling out the vial of kayran fluid. “The kayran has a stronger than usual toxin level in its secretions. I need an antidote of some kind so I stand a chance fighting it.”

“The kayran? Why would you-“

“Loredo, the commandant,” Geralt interrupted, “he’ll help us track down Iorveth, but only if I kill the kayran for him.”

“I thought he hired Síle to do that.”

“He did, but he wants me to help her get it done. Threatened to turn me over for the bounty on my head if I refuse.”

“Of course he did. So, what are you going to do? No offense, but that thing is huge. Even witchers have their limits. You’re not honestly planning on facing it alone, are you?”

“No, Síle and I have a plan. That’s where I got this fluid sample. Think you could engineer something today?”

“A _plan_? You’re working with Síle?” Triss replied, suddenly taking on a much sharper tone as she came to a complete stop and faced him. “I thought we talked about this. Geralt, _she can’t be trusted_.”

“ _You_ talked about it, Triss. You said it yourself - it’s too much to tackle on my own. She’s been here studying it, and she has a plan. What’s the problem? What is it about her that’s got you so upset?”

“She…” Triss pushed out a frustrated sigh, placing her hands on her hips as she searched for the right words. “Look… it’s a long story, okay, but I know her. She’s extremely powerful, she’s extremely manipulative, and whatever it is she’s up to, it can’t be good.”

“Funny - she talked like the two of you were friends,” he said with an almost mocking edge to his tone.

Triss’s still-bloodshot blue eyes narrowed. “What did she ask about me? What did you tell her?”

“What do you have to hide, Triss?” He fired back, straightening his posture defiantly.

“Oh. So _that’s_ what all this is about!” She said with a bitter laugh of disbelief. “This is not about Síle at all, is it? You don’t trust me. Is that it? Still not enough that I told you about Yennefer and all the happy love stories the two of you had?”

Geralt opened his mouth to reply, then caught himself before he spoke, stepping back a minute to gather his thoughts. He pressed his lips together tightly, shaking his head as he went back and forth mentally, before giving in and speaking his mind anyway.

“No, Triss. I don’t trust you. You’re hiding something, and I want to know what it is. Especially if it’s my neck on the line.”

“It wouldn’t _be_ on the line if you would just listen to me!” She shouted, loudly enough that the guards on the wall took notice.

“Well if you would just explain why the hell she’s got you so spooked, there wouldn’t be a problem.”

Triss’s voice started to crack, eyes tearing up in anger. “Have I not done enough to earn just one tiny measure of blind, take-my-word-for-it goodwill with you? By the gods! I left my whole life to follow you to this hell-hole, and from the moment we boarded the ship, all you’ve done is push me away. You know what? Have it your way. You wanna go get yourself killed as Síle’s stooge, _fine_. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She snatched the vile out of his hand, turned, and marched off angrily.

“Hey! Where are you going with that?” He called out, feet planted.

“To make your goddamn potion,” she said over her shoulder. “If you’re gonna die, it won’t be my fault. You’ll have it tomorrow.”

“Triss, wait. Triss!” … _Damnit._

__

———————————————————

Geralt ate fried eggs at the inn in solitude. Angry, fork-bending solitude. After informing Síle it would be another day before he’d be ready to fight the kayran, he grew angrier still. He didn’t wish to see or talk to anyone, and since he had nothing productive to do with the rest of the day, he set out to roam the forest, looking for an outlet for his frustration. As it turned out, he found quite a few. The densely-overgrown depths of the forest were teeming with nekkers - foul, shifty creatures who leapt from hidden burrows to bite and claw at anything resembling edible flesh. The witcher’s silver sword dispatched so many of them that he lost count, and by the time the sun began setting, he felt somewhat better. Hoping to find Triss - and his antidote - he trekked back out to Roche’s ship, but all he found was a tapped keg and a group of inebriated soldiers.

“Oh look - the witcher’s returned,” one of them shouted, finally noticing him as he returned to the upper deck from Triss’s empty room. “Had enough of dwarven hospitality, have you?” Another one added. “Come to drink with the mighty Blue Stripes?”

He walked over to join them. “I wouldn’t turn down a drink, if you’re offering. What’s the occasion?”

“Do men need an occasion to imbibe?” Another one said, slapping him on the shoulder with a laugh that seemed too hearty and loud to be sober. “Ah, but there is an occasion, right Thirteen?”  
A tall, young man with hair so short it was nearly shaven handed Geralt a drink. “That there is. We were out on patrol, when a she-elf ran up to us, eyes wide and panicked. Said she was being _persecuted_ by humans, that we simply _had_ to save her, or they were gonna lynch her from the nearest tree.”

“So, what did you do?” The witcher asked, taking a long drink. The mead was warm and mildly sweet. After a frustrating day, it was soothing to his senses.

“We started to string her up ourselves,” Thirteen added, “but then we thought, ‘let’s hear her out first.’ She said two of Loredo’s men went missing after she’d whored herself out to ‘em, but she insisted they were alive and well when they finished ploughin.’”

“Served them right, ploughin’ an elf,” another, stocky man interjected. “I’d sooner put my cock in a crawfish hole. Damned backwater savages.”

“So anyway,” Thirteen continued, “she says she’s got proof that the men were killed by nekkers, offers to lead us there to show us. Well, Rondo and Blaise, they knew something sounded fishy, so they trailed off from the group, circled around. And whatta ya know - the bitch was leading us straight into a trap. Only _we_ were the ones springing it. Rondo and Blaise cut two throats before the rest even knew what hit’em. We cut down five of those pointy-eared bastards. Not one of ‘em escaped. Then we roughed up the lying cunt, tied her up, and handed her over to the villagers so they could have their lynching - and a little fun first, if that’s what they were in the mood for.”

Geralt took another long drink to hide his grimace. He was no fan of the guerrilla tactics the Scoia’tael frequently engaged in, but neither was he a fan of killing them just to kill them, and then throwing a party to celebrate it.

“D’you boys tell our witcher about your ‘big conquest?’ A young, short-haired woman with a studded blue jacket asked, walking over with a teasing glint in her eye. Geralt recognized her from the interrogation room in the La Valette dungeon. “Aren’t your arms sore from patting yourselves on the back so hard?” She continued.

“Let’em have their fun,” another, slightly older man shouted from a distance.

“Oh, I will,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t have my own.”

“You must be Ves,” Geralt said, extending a hand.

She grasped his firmly. “Second in command, at your service.”

“You always give the men a hard time?” He asked, nearly emptying his mug. He noticed Triss had been right - the eyes of the men did find their way to her with regularity.

“Only when they’re puffed up on some fantasy like it’s bloody Sodden Hill.” She poured herself a drink, and filled his mug. “Three of those ‘bloodthirsty savages’ were unarmed, and one had just taken a shit and didn’t have the time to draw his sword with his trousers still down. They got this keg from their camp. Not that I’d shed a tear over a few less elves in this world. A squirrel’s a squirrel - armed, shitting, or any other way.”

“To humanity,” Thirteen shouted, as everyone took another swig. Geralt’s grimace widened.

“Know what?” Ves said to no one in general. “Since we’ve got such a bountiful harvest of mead, we should play a game. Thrown knives. Miss the target, take a shot. Hit the target, take two shots. I’m first!”

The group insisted on Geralt’s participation, and while he had no particular skill in knife-throwing, he still managed to surpass all of the men, who were further down the path to drunkenness than he. Only Ves bested him. A few rounds of mead later, he came to congratulate her.

“Nicely done,” he said, unaware of his mildly slurred speech. “Wouldn’t want to stand in your way.”

“What is this I hear?” She said, feigning astonishment. “Actual praise for a job well done? From a man? No, ‘well, for a woman’ attached to it?”

“Fair is fair. Though, I imagine respect is hard to come by with this lot.”

“At times, sure. But I have respect, witcher. I’ve earned it.”

“Hmm. Tell me, how is it that a young lady such as yourself gets tied up sweating in the woods killing elves with Vernon Roche?”

Ves scoffed. “Well it’s not like I’m a bloody nobleman’s daughter, is it? In case you hadn’t noticed, life’s not exactly full of opportunities for a pauper girl. I could spend my life tending pigs and pushing out babies, take to whoring, or actually do something that matters. See the world. Roche saved me, took me in. Gave me something to believe in.”

“Roche, huh? Is he ever _not_ a high-strung asshole?”

She laughed. “You’ve been talking to your sorceress, have you? Never seen him so pissed off about someone sleeping in. I mean… yeah. Roche can be an ass sometimes, but that’s how men like him survive. His dad took ill, died when he was nine or ten. Mother took to whoring to feed the family. Roche became a demanding asshole because someone had to look after the other kids. Now, he just has kids in gown up bodies to look after. Speaking of…”

A tall, muscular man tapped Geralt on the shoulder, challenging him to an armwrestling match. Since it also involved drinking after each round, he decided to join in. After that came races and boxing matches, and all manner of competitions that drunk men could think up. Geralt enjoyed them all, diving headfirst into the blissful numbness. For a few hours, there was no worrying about the kayran or Síle, no urgency to catch the kingslayer, no tension with Triss, no missing memories… there was just numbness. Such escapes from reality always come at a price, though, most often payable in the morning.

———————————————————

Geralt awoke to the sensations of hairy whiskers brushing his face and a moist, gritty tongue licking his cheek. He jolted out of his slumber, swatting at the source of the unwanted sensations, and immediately noticed a throbbing in his head. Rubbing his eyes before opening them, he spotted a speckled goat trotting away through the tall, swishing grass which appeared to have been his bed for the night - and morning.

“What the hell did I…” he muttered, only then realizing that he was dressed only in his undergarments. He searched his memory, and could recall games with the Blue Stripes and drinking… and then a haze of indiscernible blotches. It was well into the morning, which means he was already late to pick up the kayran antidote from Triss, but a more urgent matter required his attention first - finding his clothes and swords.

After wandering around for five minutes trying to get his bearings, the sore, half-naked and powerfully hung-over witcher made his way toward the ship where he last remembered being dressed. He received no shortage of teasing cat-calls and jesting from a few of the men who hadn’t imbibed so liberally the night before, and before he could conjure up a coherent reply, Ves appeared from below deck.

“There you are. I was wondering how long it would take you to retrace your steps,” she said with a smirk and an eye roll. “You are a difficult man to restrain, you know that? Stronger than you look. Which… is sayin’ something. I suspect you want your clothes back?”

Geralt rubbed his temples, closing his eyes momentarily to gain a bit of respite from the oppressively bright sunlight. “Mmhmm.’

“Well, lucky for you, I happened to pick up after you this time, but don’t get used to it. I’m not your damn maid. I’ve put them in the trunk in your sorceress’s room.”

“Thanks. Is she there?”

“She left, not more than an hour ago. Said she’d meet up with you later at the inn. Something about fried eggs? I dunno.”

“Right. Uh… Ves, did I, uh… do anything _unwise_ last night? Don’t really recall much.”

She snorted a laugh. “I lost count of the ‘unwise’ things you and the boys got into last night. But, if you’re implying something with me - don’t flatter yourself. I live on a ship full of horny men, and I understand where babies come from. I know how to keep my knickers on.”

“Uh… good. I’m… just gonna put some clothes on now.”

“Good idea,” she said with a playful but patronizing smile.

Once dressed, Geralt headed directly to the inn. He noticed on the way that a discomfort on his neck, which began the day as an itch, had graduated to a burning, constant ache. Coupled with the pounding in his head and the tumultuous way his last conversation with Triss had ended, he was in no mood to step inside, but he was already behind schedule for the kayran hunt, and he was desperately hungry and thirsty.

Once inside the inn, Geralt spotted Triss immediately. She was dressed in a fitted, short-sleeved white blouse with green stripes, leather trousers, and boots which came up past her knees. She was facing away from him, so engrossed in whatever she was reading that she hadn’t noticed his arrival. He took the opportunity to order some food and water from the innkeeper, then carried two plates with him to the rough-cut wooden table where she sat, placing one of them down in front of her.

“Two eggs fried, yolks broken, with a dash of salt. They’re out of raspberries; hope blackberries are close enough.”

A faint smile dawned slowly on one corner of her mouth. “…you remember.”

“I forgot most of what I knew. Guess it left room for more details on the newer things. Plus, you’re… pretty consistent with your breakfast order.”

Triss closed her book, looking up to thank Geralt for the offer (though she’d eaten hours ago), but the moment she saw him, her auburn eyebrows scrunched in head-tilting, intense inspection. “Did you… get a tattoo?” She asked, stifling a chuckle.

Geralt felt the sore spot on his neck and cringed. “I’m… not really sure.”

“Look up a little bit, let me see…” she said, leaning forward… and laughing more openly.

Geralt breathed out a heavy sigh. “I had a few too many drinks with the Blue Stripes last night.”

“Well, that much is obvious. When the only woman onboard brought your clothes to my room, I figured as much.”

“Triss, nothing hap-“

“I know, I know. She told me. Probably worried I’d turn her into a frog. Which… might’ve been a better subject for your tattoo artist.”

“What is it? I don’t even remember. Does it look bad?”

Triss reigned in her giggles just enough to keep an almost-straight face. “It’s a naked lady… brandishing a sword. Or, well… something else. It’s a little sloppy. No, definitely a sword.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Have a look for yourself,” she said, muttering a spell and conjuring up his reflection in something that resembled a floating mirror.

“Well that’s just great. I don’t suppose you have any spells to remove tattoos…”

“Why ever would you want to?” She said, no longer able to subdue her laughter. “It looks positively dashing!”

“Ha ha. You can stop anytime now.”

“Oh! Just wait until Dandelion sees it! Maybe he’ll want a matching one.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to him.”

“Now where would be the fun in that?”

“Triss, please.”

“Oh, alright, alright. Sorry, I just… haven’t had anything to laugh about in too long. You don’t need a spell to undo it - I can brew a potion that’ll do the trick. It uh, might burn a little. Well, actually a lot.”

“Thanks. Speaking of-“

“Yes, I have your antidote,” Triss interrupted, reaching into her satchel and producing a small, corked bottle with a dark brown liquid inside. “It’s strong enough to put down a bull - should be plenty in there for what you need. Though… I _would_ recommend hydrating first. Especially if you’re hung over.”

He looked directly into her sparkling eyes, and for a moment, all levity left the room like an exhaled breath. “Thank you, Triss.”

Her face creased in concern. “Be careful, Geralt. I still think this is a bad idea.”

“I know.”

“I ran a couple of diagnostic spells over that sample you gave me to get the proportions for the potion right. Listen… this isn’t a natural mutation. It’s been _magically_ enhanced… and it’s dying.”

He looked off with furrowed brows. “Guess that shouldn’t surprise me. Any idea why?”  
“Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that it’s dangerous.”

“That’s never stopped me.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “I know. I’ll be on the ship when you’re done. If you need any stitches…”

“You should come with me. I’d feel better with another capable mage on our side.”

“I think I’ll pass,” she said, leaning back and folding her arms in a closed-off posture. “Don’t want too many cooks in the kitchen. Besides, Síle’s got a plan.”

“…I should go,” Geralt said, placing the antidote in his belt pocket.

“Wait - you shouldn’t fight on an empty stomach…”

He sat for a moment, long enough to eat both his breakfast and Triss’s. Their conversation wasn’t deep, but at least it was civil, which was a success in Geralt’s mind.

__

———————————————————

“For the last time, witcher, we’re not changing the plan. Stop whining about it.” Síle had already positioned herself atop the high, rocky bluffs near the cove where the kayran made its lair, which necessitated shouting in order to communicate.

“It’s a stupid plan, Síle,” Geralt replied from the water’s edge, boots sinking slowly in the peat-covered mud, “one that puts exactly _one_ of us in harm’s way. I told you, we should build snares for the tentacles.”

“You underestimate my prowess. The spells will hold. And once again, I’m up here because I can cast them more effectively from this vantage point,” she answered impatiently. “Listen, we haven’t got all day. Are you ready to fight, or aren’t you?”

“Give me five minutes for the antidote to set in, and we can start.” He took the bottle from his belt, along with another to enhance his stamina, and downed them, one after the other. His stomach burned as though he’d swallowed hot oil, and for a moment, he had to strongly resist the urge to vomit, but the intensity of the reaction waned, slowly dissipating into a tingling hot sensation coursing through his veins. He lowered to his knees, hands on his thighs, and focused his mind on breathing. Slowly the surge of adrenaline from the concoctions grew, until it was all he could do to keep from leaping and running laps around the muddy shore. He was ready. He signaled to the sorceress on the bluffs, drawing his sword slowly and deliberately and waiting for movement on the water.

Geralt felt his medallion vibrate as a spell passed overhead, causing a small ripple in the water, then a series of chaotic waves. He readied the Quen Sign for protection, just in case, and took a few steps back. Suddenly, a huge tentacle broke the surface of the water, moving with deceptive speed across the sky. It slammed down near the witcher with such force that it knocked him off his feet, showering the entire area with globs of mud and small riverbed stones. Geralt quickly rolled backward, narrowly escaping a sideways swipe from the venomous appendage, and slashed at it, drawing a stream of bright red near the rounded tip.

“What are you waiting for?” Geralt shouted, diving sideways to miss another attack and rolling back to his feet in one smooth, rehearsed motion. “Cast the spell!”

“I’m trying!” Síle shouted back. “You’re in the way.”

“I told you-“‘ Geralt said through deep, controlled breaths, whirling around and striking the tentacle again. “We should’ve used traps.”

As he was speaking, a second tentacle shot out from the algae-coated water, quickly followed by a third. Dodging suddenly became more difficult. Síle’s restricting spell finally took hold of the first tentacle, straightening it stiffly and immobilizing it for the most part. It would’ve been a great help, had it not been for the other two, which thrashed about wildly, beating the ground like a drum. Geralt protected himself with Quen at the last second, deflecting a blow that nevertheless sent him careening across the mucky battlefield. He landed with a thud, sinking a foot and a half into the ground, then struggled to free himself as the kayran continued to barrage the shore. Weaving through the moving tentacles, he charged toward the still-immobilized one, striking with such speed and force that he cleaved straight through it. A deep, thunderous roar came from the water, as the beast threw its full weight into the struggle, reaching out with all five remaining appendages. The sudden lunge forward drew the gargantuan head of the kayran above the surface of the water, giving Geralt a harrowing view of just how large a beast he’d angered.

The witcher’s eyes widened as he took in the sight, sprinting with all his might to dodge another blow by a slimy appendage and put some distance between himself and the source of the writhing arms.

“Síle! Trap it now!” He shouted, pivoting a moment too late to dodge a crushing lateral swipe, which knocked the wind out of his chest and planted him flat on his back.

“He’s moving too quickly!” She yelled back. “Try to draw him closer!”

At the moment, Geralt was too busy not dying to focus on tactical maneuvers. He forced his lungs to open, gasping and reaching his sword up just in time to skewer another tentacle that otherwise would have flattened him. Rolling to the side, he grasped the hilt, wrenching it from the blubbery flesh and raining blood and mucus on the soil. Meanwhile, Síle had managed to trap two other appendages, which gave him a fighting chance. He leapt, backpedalled and rolled his way further ashore, up to the edge of the bluffs, beckoning the monster a bit further out of the water to exact its revenge. Another spell from Síle pinned a third tentacle down as the beast rose fully out of the water. It was truly a terrible sight, no less than twenty feet tall, with deep black eyes the size of watermelons and a circular, razor-edged mouth that was large enough to swallow a man whole.

Seeing he would get no better opportunity, Geralt followed the sorceress’s plan, climbing one of the subdued tentacles and deftly running along its surface toward the body - and vital organs - for a killing blow. The kayran, however, was not content to play its role. One of Síle’s spells failed in spectacular fashion, sending flashes of energy in every direction as a tentacle, now uninhibited, lurched from the ground and came howling through the air toward the witcher. Reacting more out of instinct than volition, he leaned away from the swinging appendage, wrapping his arms around it and hanging on tightly. The kayran swung and thrashed its tentacle about wildly, sending Geralt on a dizzying ride, but not dislodging him. A final swat against the ground loosened his grip, but he grabbed hold again near the tip of the wriggling tentacle. The ground flew away from him in a rush as he was suddenly hoisted high above the kayran’s body, then swung rapidly downward toward the beast’s open mouth. In a split-second, the witcher saw an opportunity and pounced, releasing his grip and drawing his sword. He contorted his body acrobatically through the air, thrusting his silver sword with the aid of gravity into the leathery surface of the monster with immense force. The blow landed in between the mouth and eyes, drawing a flood of deep crimson as the kayran jerked backward, intending to retreat into the water. Síle’s spells held tightly to a few tentacles, though, and the beast was only able to partially submerge. Geralt regrouped, swinging his body upward and withdrawing his sword. Gaining a slippery foothold on the crest of the monster, he proceeded to stab and hack rapidly, finally cutting through the cartilaginous shell around the brain and sending a tidal wave roaring over the shore as the beast’s limp body came crashing down. The witcher climbed down from the hulking mass, waded through blood-streaked water, then collapsed on the shore, exhausted.

Every inch of Geralt’s body hurt. It hurt to breath. It hurt to swallow. It hurt to think. He lay there in the mud for some time before his sorceress partner finally made her way down from the bluffs.

“Are you well, witcher?” She asked, stepping awkwardly through the gooey terrain in a futile attempt to keep the fringe of her dress clean. “That was quite the ordeal.”

“Never… better,” he grunted, forcing his eyes to open.

“I’d help you up, but you’re covered in slime, and I don’t have the benefit of an antidote as you do. Here - you first, then the beast.”

She spoke a few lines in the elder speech, and Geralt felt a cold, tingling sensation lift him from the ground and set him gingerly on his feet, back at the rocky edge of the river.

“I am _genuinely_ sorry for the way that turned out,” she said. “Perhaps you were right about using mechanical traps as well as spells. I simply didn’t expect the brute to be so strong.”

“Next time you hire a witcher to kill a monster, take his advice,” he said under lowered brows. “Enjoy carving it up.”

“I’m enraptured with glee at the prospect,” she said with rolled eyes. “I shall instruct the town administrator to have half of the reward set aside for you. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, wincing in pain as he turned and started the long walk toward Triss and medical attention.


	7. Rose of Remembrance

Triss flung the coarse sheet off the cot in her room, insisting that the mostly-undressed witcher have a seat so she could better tend to his wounds. An ironic smiled flashed across her face for a brief second. She’d envisioned Geralt in her bed again, but not like this.

“Im fine,” he protested, wheezing loudly as he sat on the edge of the rickety cot.

“Hold still,” she chided, ignoring his words and casting a diagnostic spell. After a moment, her eyebrows drew together in concern. “You have two broken ribs, and bruising on the rest of that side… and you may have a concussion, too.”

“I’m a quick healer. You know that.”

“You’re also too ‘tough’ for your own good sometimes.” Triss stroked her face nervously, muttering to herself about different spells and potions she could use to remedy his condition. Every labored, uneven breath he drew deepened her concern, which boiled over into worry when his head sagged, then began to bob as sleep beckoned him. The witcher potions which gave him an edge in battle had run their course, and were exacting a heavy toll of fatigue on his body. “Geralt?” She slapped his cheek lightly and repeatedly. “Hey, don’t fall asleep yet, okay? I’m gonna use a spell to help those bones repair faster, but I need you to stay awake and focus on breathing. Can you do that?”

He nodded. “Mmhmm.”

“Okay. Now, this will probably hurt a bit. If it gets to be too much, I need you to tell me.”

She cast the spell and he winced, grunting in pain as his breaths became shallow and rapid.

“Is that too mu-“

“Just… finish it… quick,” he interrupted, gripping the side of the canvas cot so tightly his fingers tore through the fabric.

He let out a subdued cry of pain as the spell took full effect, then collapsed to the bed. Triss pulled his legs onto the canvas surface, gently covering him with the threadbare, slightly odorous sheet as she listened to his breath. He was still wheezing, but more subtly now. As she withdrew her hands, he grasped one firmly, opening his eyes narrowly and speaking in little more than a whisper.

“Triss… stay. Please. My… breathing-“

“Shh,” she replied softly, placing her other hand around his. “I know. I’ll be right here.”

He closed his eyes again, and fell into a deep sleep.

__

———————————————————

Geralt awakened to the smell of chicken broth, sage and celery. He sat up suddenly, wincing in pain as each rib on his right side throbbed in furious chorus. The source of the smell - a bowl of light-brown liquid - sat on a grey wooden table next to his cot. On the floor beside it were his clothes, boots and swords, laundered and neatly stacked. Famished after what felt like a prolonged session of sleep, he drank the broth greedily, then dressed himself, which was a painful and arduous experience, owing to his sore ribs. Also sore was the spot on his neck where he’d been tattooed a day earlier. The site of the decoration was now hot and blistered, objecting painfully every time he turned his head from side to side.

Once dressed, he made his way to the upper deck of the ship, and nearly ran over Triss, who was headed toward the lower deck with a bowl full of bread rolls and pears.

“Geralt! You’re awake,” she said, surprised, but smiling. “Honestly! I leave for _five minutes_ …”

“It’s fine.”

“I know you’re in pain. How’s your breathing? Any better?”  
“Much,” he lied. Anything beyond a shallow breath still ached wildly. “How long was I out?”

“Nearly a full day.”

Geralt glanced up at the sun, which had already passed overhead and was beginning its afternoon descent toward the horizon. “Damn. Can’t stand to lose any more time. I need to talk to Lor-“

“Roche already talked to him,” Triss interrupted. “Your coin is waiting at the fort, Zoltan is a free dwarf, and the guards are ready to help search for Iorveth when you are. That is, if they’re more help than hindrance. But you’re in no shape to go off fighting. You need rest. And food. Come have a seat.”

Rest and food sounded downright magical; Geralt found his willpower too weak to resist. Craving fresh air, they skipped the tiny, musty cabin, opting instead to sit side by side on the floor near the bow of the ship. After stuffing his mouth with bread and fruit for a few minutes, Geralt forced himself to draw a deep breath, exhaling slowly and leaning his back against the railing on the bow.

“My tattoo - you removed it while I was asleep, didn’t you?” He asked, rubbing the blistered skin lightly with his fingertips.

“I figured I might as well save you the agony,” she replied with a pleasant smile. “It came off pretty well.”

He drew a few more shallow breaths, gathering his thoughts. “I know… things have been strained between us. And… ah. I’m no good at this. Thanks, Triss. I, uh… I guess I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she said, looking directly into his eyes, which glistened like gold in the afternoon sun. “I did it because I _wanted_ to. Look… can we just drop the whole thing with Síle? Just agree to disagree and move forward?”

“I’d like that.”

“Good… ‘cause I learned something very interesting while I was gathering ingredients for your tattoo paste.”

“Oh?”

“The humans in Flotsam know about as much about herbs as they do about astronomy - which is to say, basically nothing. I finally found an elf in Lobinden named Cedric -he was so helpful, not radicalized like a lot of them around here. It turns out that he’s had a bit of a drinking problem ever since his wife went missing, and… I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

He nodded.

“Well, anyway… as he was gathering the herbs I ordered, I read his mind, and learned something that might give us a lead on Iorveth. There’s another elf - a Scoia’tael named Ciaran who recently got captured, apparently in bad shape. Cedric tried to bring medicine to him at the prison barge, but got sent away. The guard in Cedric’s memory said this other elf was a ‘high value prisoner,’ which makes me think he’s gotta have useful information.”

“Ok, so what’s your plan?”

“If we can get in and question him, maybe we can get to Iorveth without making it a small war.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, stroking his chin in contemplation. “I _would_ prefer not to work with Loredo if there’s another way. Do you think we could get him to talk?”

“I think it’s worth a shot.”

“Okay, let’s do it. We’ll wait for dark, then sneak aboard. These guards are a joke - it shouldn’t be that hard.”

Triss thought silently for a moment. “…Why wait for dark?” She unlaced the top of her blouse, ruffling the material around to offer more than a hint of the contents underneath. “You know the kind of goons Loredo hires. Between my charms and your Axii, I think we can talk our way aboard in broad daylight.”

“Well then… let’s not waste anymore time. We can finish the rest of the food on the way.”

__

———————————————————

“Whadda you want, whitey?” The guard at the entrance to the pier asked lazily, eyelids drooping underneath one single, overgrown line of hair for eyebrows.

“We need to speak with the wounded elven prisoner,” Triss answered, one hand casually placed on her hip to accentuate the contours of her figure. The guard took notice immediately.

“Ap-uh… apologies, madam,” he stuttered, “but no one’s allowed. We all got quite the ass-chiding from Loredo the other day after some bugger let a prisoner go free by mistake.”

“Our orders are _from_ Loredo,” Geralt said, forming the Axii Sign covertly. He could’ve done it in front of his face and still gotten away with it - the guards eyes were fully enthralled, mentally unlacing the rest of Triss’s blouse.

“F-from… Loredo, you say?” he replied without looking up. “I heard he cut a deal with you, but-“

“So get out of the damn way,” Geralt said threateningly. He was quickly growing tired of the guard’s ogling. Triss noticed - and couldn't suppress a smile.

“Don’t expect much,” the lustful man said, stepping aside to let the visitors pass. “Already beat the whoreson within an inch of his life. His lips’s locked up tighter than the Commandant’s vault.”

Geralt smirked, shooting a glance at Triss. “I don’t think he’ll be a problem, then.”

They walked the long, uneven platform to the barge, increasingly enveloped by the nauseating aromas of bodily waste and rotting flesh. The stench grew by orders of magnitude as they were ushered below deck, where dozens of men, elves and dwarves sat or stood chained to the tar-pitched wooden walls. Most were naked or dressed in tatters, emaciated from hunger, with bruises and festering wounds.

“Gods, Geralt,” Triss whispered, covering her mouth to try and limit the smell. “This is no prison. It’s a torture chamber.”

“Let’s hope this elf is still able to speak,” he replied, grateful he’d pushed so hard to get Zoltan released.

Near the back of the large, wood-pillared room was the prisoner in question. A dark-haired elf who appeared to be a young adult, but as with all elves, his true age could have been anywhere from twenty years to well over one hundred. Triss cast a spell on the unconscious elf, sighing and muttering as she investigated his condition.

“Think we can wake him?” Geralt asked, frowning.

“It’s possible, sure. But it won’t be easy. They beat him badly… he’s got at least a dozen fractures… internal organs damaged. I can do it, but I’ll need your help.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“The spell to revive him... it’ll be painful. Kind of like what I did for your ribs, only worse. If he starts thrashing around, it could kill him. I’ll need you to calm him with Axii.”

“Well… getting a lot of practice with that one.”

“Take it seriously, Geralt.”

“Relax. I’m a professional, remember?”

“Right… Let’s begin.”

The sorceress chanted a lengthy series of phrases, weaving symbols in the air with both arms, fingers carefully arranged. The prisoner’s breathing and heart rate shot up rapidly, body twitching under the effects of the magic coursing through it. Geralt cast Axii as the twitching became more violent, and after about twenty seconds, they heard a groan - feeble at first, then growing until it was a shout. They released their spells and stepped back, as the body began to move naturally, coughing dryly. The elf rolled to his side in the fetal position, and opened his eyes.

“ _A witcher_?” He said in his native tongue, pausing for a round of coughs. “ _Where am I_?”

“ _In Flotsam. On the prison barge_ ,” Triss replied in his language.

He cursed in elder speech before addressing them in the common tongue. “So this is no rescue…”

“No. Are you Ciaran?” Geralt asked.

“Plough yourself.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” the witcher replied, kneelingbeside him. “We need to talk about Iorveth.”

“Forget it, whoreson!” Ciaran grunted, spitting. “I’m no traitor.”

Geralt felt his medallion quiver as Triss cast another spell. “You can trust us,” she said. “We want to help.” She looked at Geralt and nodded.

“You’re one of Iorveth’s officers,” he said. “How did Loredo’s goons manage to take you alive?”

“I was betrayed! How else?”

“By whom?”

The elf exhaled sharply through his nose, gritting his teeth. “That whoreson, Letho.”

“Who’s that?” Geralt asked.

“Another vatt’ghern like you. We trusted him… like every other dh’oine, he turned out to be a bastard.”

Triss’s eyes lit up, meeting Geralt’s. Finally, a break.

“He betrayed his own clan as well,” Geralt said with an even tone. “We want to bring him to justice. You can help us do that. Tell us what happened.”

Ciaran rolled to his side, groaning and clutching his side for a moment before continuing with a voice obviously strained by his injuries.

“He said he had an offer for me that he wanted to discuss discretely. So we met - in the garden where roses of remembrance grow. Ironic. I should have seen it coming.”

“Wait? Roses of remembrance?” Triss interrupted. “Here? In Flotsam?”

“Nearby,” Ciaran confirmed, shifting his weight and grimacing noticeably. “Some of the last in the world. Some of the few the dh’oine haven’t destroyed. We cultivate them.”

“Where are they?” Triss asked, suddenly animated.

“Triss…” Geralt said with a flavor of rebuke.

“It is… a sacred garden,” Ciaran replied, narrowing his eyes spitefully. “No Aen Seidhe would disclose it to a dh’oine - even those who seek to ‘help.’ Well, none but Iorveth. Another of his indiscretions with the vatt’ghern.”

“Enough about the flowers,” Geralt said firmly. “I’m interested in where Letho is. Tell me how to find him.”

“How the hell should I know?” The elf said bitterly, entering a long coughing fit before regaining his breath. “As I told you, he deceived us. He thought I’d betray my elven brethren in order to control the unit. Naturally, I refused. A fight ensued, and much blood was spilled. It was… I’ve… never seen someone move so fast. He butchered six of us like swine. It was a massacre. I was the first to fall - he must have thought me to be dead. Funny - I _would_ have been dead had Loredo’s men not found me. Though it would have been a preferable fate to this wooden dungeon.”

“He trying to overthrow Iorveth?” Triss asked. “Why?”  
“I don’t know,” Ciaran answered with a frustrated sigh. “He’s not particularly forthcoming with information. What I do know is that he used us - took advantage of our wrath, our desperation. He offered to bring the heads of the dh’oine kings to us, provided we shelter him. We… we thought it could turn the tide. What fools… this Letho - he is a dreadfully efficient ender of lives. He will slay Iorveth, and all will be lost. So many dead, so much suffering… all for naught.”

“ _If Letho is coming for Iorveth, we may be able to intercept him_ ,” Triss said mentally to Geralt, projecting the words into his mind. He nodded subtly.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he said to Ciaran. “Tell me where Iorveth is. I can warn him, protect him. I’m the only one who can face Letho in combat.”

“I cannot…” Ciaran mumbled, eyes rolling back in his head.

“ _The spell is losing hold_ ,” Triss said mentally. “ _I can’t keep him alert_.”

“Where is Iorveth?” Geralt persisted.

“I’ll not… betray him…” the elf replied. “Not… I cannot. Please, release me, sorceress. I wish… I wish to die. Let me go to where the apple trees bl—-… bloom eternal. Release…”

 _Apple trees. Where the apple trees bloom. Eternal_ … the words circled round and round in the witcher’s head with searing hot intensity, until all he could see was an orchard with endless, rolling hills.

__

———————————————————

Apple trees sway in the steady breeze, rich with flowers, shedding petals like fragrant rain drops. The Raven-haired woman smiles. She is dressed in a wispy, flowing robe that dances around her like the tongues of a flame. She is happy. Peaceful. It brings the witcher immeasurable joy. Days, months, years pass like falling petals… but like those petals, they’re replaced perpetually. Time has no value, no sense of forward motion. There are only the witcher, the woman, and the trees, blooming in perpetuity.

__

———————————————————

“Geralt!” Geralt, can you hear me?” He awoke to Triss’s concerned face, eyes darting feverishly as she searched for a sign that he was alright.

“I… saw the orchard. The isle of Avalon,” he said, only then becoming aware that he was slumped on the floor.

“What are you talking about?” Triss asked, feeling his forehead to check for fever.

“My memory, Triss. Something he said triggered another flashback. I remember an orchard. Ciri took Yen and me there after the riot in Rivia. I thought… it seemed like the afterlife, but… we weren’t dead, just somewhere else. In another world.”

“You memory, it’s… it’s like these things are just below the surface. I think your mind is healing - or at least trying.” She helped him up, fidgeting nervously with her hands for a moment afterward. “Those roses that Ciaran mentioned - the reason I was so interested was because I think they could help. _More_ than help… they could be the key to healing you. Roses of remembrance have powerful qualities when combined with the right ingredients. I… thought they were extinct. But if he was telling the truth, if the Scoia’tael are growing them somewhere nearby… Geralt, I really think I could bring your memory back. Completely.”

He stepped closer, eyes intense. “Triss, if you can-“

“I can. I know it. And I _will_. I… owe it to you.” Guilt colored her face. Sadness. Possibly even anxiety, though Geralt couldn’t be sure.

“Doesn’t matter,’ he said dejectedly. “You heard him. He’d die before telling us the location.”

“He may not have _told_ me,” she said, pivoting to a cunning smile, “but he showed me. In his mind. I took a peek as he was talking. There’s a round pond with a high, sheer bluff on one side. Above that bluff, behind a copse of trees - that’s where the garden is.”

“I think I know where that is,” Geralt replied, replaying his memory of roaming the forest hunting nekkers. “It’s not that far. But… the kingslayer-“

“He can wait,” Triss said, grasping his hand. “This is more important. Please, Geralt. Let me do this. Let me help you.”

He exhaled long and slow, mulling the decision over in his mind for a few seconds. “Alright. Let’s find that garden.”

__

———————————————————

“This is it!” Triss said excitedly, as they came at last upon the circular pond she described from Ciaran’s memory. “Perfect! This is exactly what I saw. Okay, it’s up there on top of the bluff somewhere. There’s gotta be a path around here leading up.”

“Leave it to me,” Geralt said, scanning the ground carefully for tracks. As light-footed as Scoia’tael were, they still left evidence behind - at least to a highly trained and enhanced eye. After ten minutes of combing the area like a bloodhound, he spotted the telltale signs of foot traffic, and followed the bent grass blades and dislodged rocks to a narrow, winding trail, which snaked back and forth up a steep incline.

“Cedric told me a beautiful legend about this place,” Triss said, breathing heavily from the arduous climb. “Back when I thought that was all it was - a legend.”

“Mmhmm.” Geralt was focused. If Letho really was using this garden as a meeting place or hideout, there was a chance he’d be there when they arrived… and he wouldn’t go down easily.

“Supposedly, it was a place where two lovers would sneak away to meet,” Triss continued. “Their parents didn’t approve of their courtship, so they had to meet up under the moonlight. Their families insisted they marry mates chosen for them before birth, but they continued to secretly meet here under every full moon, well into their old age. It’s said that the man came back one last time, after his lover died, and planted a rose bush in her memory. I had no idea it would actually be a rose of remembrance!”

Geralt glanced over with an amused smirk. “How do you remember all these things?”

“Like I said, it’s a beautiful story. Star-crossed lovers, secret rendezvous, love that continues beyond the grave…”

“Legends are almost always beautiful, especially elven ones. The reality is usually a lot darker. Uglier.”

“To a professional monster-killer. C’mon, Geralt. I know you. You’re more romantic than you let on.”

“They mutate that out of us, remember?” He replied dryly.

“You keep telling yourself that,” she said with a smile, eyebrows raised.

Eventually, they reached the top of the bluff. Trees reached thirty to forty feet high, with ivy-wrapped trunks and large, dense bushes underneath. It was a veritable green wall. Undaunted, Geralt and Triss pushed through, and came upon a wondrous site. Boxed in by the verdant forest was a large, stone-paved garden. White columns and ornate, carved archways lined the perimeter, most broken or leaning in some way, but impressive nonetheless. Moss filled the seams between every pavementstone, while vibrant bushes and flowers sprouted from raised circular planters and hanging wicker baskets. To their left, a large fountain bubbled, carved out of one block of white stone in the shape of a fruit tree with a basin six feet across. In the middle of the garden, backlit by the vibrant oranges and pinks of the sun’s final streaks of daylight, was a statue - larger than life size - of two elven lovers, reclining in each-other’s embrace.

“Oh look, Geralt!” Triss said, audibly gasping as she stepped under one of the stone archways. “It’s the lovers from the legend. Wow! How beautiful. The craftsmanship… and so well-preserved.”

“It’s, uh… very nice,” he replied absent-mindedly, searching the clearing with all his senses to ensure they wouldn’t be ambushed. Once he was confident they were alone, he walked over to join Triss, who was closely inspecting the stone monument to the elven legend.

“I just don’t understand,” she said, tracing the impossibly detailed, flowing hair of the statue with her finger. “Elves have such a feeling for grace and beauty, art and poetry. The Scoia’tael tend this garden. Bandits and brigands. How did they all become so cruel?”

“Do you have to ask? Humans drove them to cruelty. Places like this make you realize just how much they’ve lost. There used to be entire elven cities, and the forests were theirs to enjoy, not to hide in. When humans arrived, the elves underestimated them. Now here we are, hundreds of years later, and all that’s left of their art and culture is in ruins like this one. Iorveth and his kind want revenge, sure, but not all elves are like that.”

“Of course. I mean, not all are Scoia’tael-“

“And not all Scoia’tael are bandits and brigands,” Geralt interrupted.

“Why do you defend them so strongly? Especially when most of them would slit your throat, given the chance.”

“Because I can relate to them. Witchers are a dying breed. We can no longer administer the trial of the grasses, the mutations… we’re increasingly marginalized by society. When any creature feels threatened, it becomes aggressive. We’re not so different - we’re both facing the same threat.”

“Human governments?”  
“Extinction. Sure, Iorveth is well past fertile age, but most of these Scoia’tael are young, the only hope for the future of their species. And they keep throwing themselves upon the swords of people like Vernon Roche.”

“Well, it’s not like Roche can just sit back and let them attack convoys and burn villages."

“No, he can’t. He has to do what he does to protect his people, just like they’re doing what they do thinking they’re protecting theirs. It’s all so very…”

“Sad.”

“Yes.”

There was a bit of silence as the two of them searched the garden for the right flower. Eventually, Geralt found an odd-shaped rose bush near the southwest corner and plucked one to show to Triss.

“Is this it?” He asked, holding up the deep crimson bloom by its thorny green stem.

“Yes! That’s it! I can’t believe we actually found one. You know, legend has it that they wilt unless nourished with blood, and also if they’re sold… but… if you give it to someone you love, it’ll live forever.” She raised one eyebrow slightly, as auburn flyaway hairs danced in the light breeze around her expectant face.

“Uh… um…” Geralt fumbled, totally caught off-guard by her insinuation.

“Oh, _relax_! I’m just kidding,” she blurted out, forcing a smile and laugh to conceal the intense disappointment his hesitation caused. “Hand it over, you unromantic goon!” She took the flower in hand, turning away immediately and biting her lip hard. _It doesn’t mean anything_ , she thought to herself. _That was a stupid, childish thing to try, Triss. Just forget it_.

“Will it work? Geralt asked from behind her, oblivious to her inner turmoil.

“It, uh… yes. It should work. Where did you find it? Can you show me?”

Geralt led her around a large planter filled with violets, then took a few more steps toward the rose bush, when the floor suddenly crumbled beneath his feet, plunging him downward, followed closely by his companion. They landed with thuds and groans, then looked up through a dusty beam of pale light to a hole over a dozen feet above them.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asked, clinching his teeth to endure the pain to his bruised ribs.

Triss coughed dryly, waving her hand to dispel the dense dust cloud in front of her face. “My tailbone is… really sore. Real-OWW! Yeah, really, really sore. But I think I’m okay otherwise. You?”

“I’ll manage.”

“It’s so dark in here, wherever ‘here’ is. Let me get some light.” The sorceress uttered a brief phrase, lifting her upturned palm, and suddenly an orb of white light appeared, ascending above them and filling the room with a soft, diffused glow. She gasped audibly as she took in the sight. They had landed in a large stone room with exquisitely-carved columns and a grand, arched ceiling covered in murals, faded and chipped with age. In the center of the room was a large, rectangular basin of water - about sixteen feet by twelve feet. A fountain was situated on one end of the basin, carved in the likeness of a root system - ostensibly part of a matched set with the tree-shaped fountain above ground.

“Geralt, this is amazing! Look at how well-preserved these carvings are!” Triss rose to her feet gingerly, wincing in pain as she straightened up, and walked over to one of the stone columns. She ran her fingers across the meticulously-detailed patterns which were carved into every inch of the surface. “We’re probably the first people to step foot in here in three, maybe four hundred years.”

“Lucky us,” he replied, eyes fixed on the hole overhead.

“Oh, come on! Where’s your sense of adventure?” She chided playfully. “C’mon, take a look at this. Have you ever seen anything like it? It’s amazing, the elven craftsmanship in these ruins. Humans build beautiful things, to be sure… but nothing like this. It’s breathtaking. Reminds me of the ruins under Aretuza - you know, the ones the students aren’t supposed to go walking around in? Ah… just lovely.”

“They could still build beautiful things today, if they’d shift their focus away from a hopeless war.”

“True… it’s easy to lose focus sometimes. Look, I know we’re in a hurry, and there are things to do, but let’s just take a minute to appreciate the beauty. And don’t worry about the hole - I can teleport us out whenever we’re ready to go.”

“You’re not teleporting me. You know how much I hate portals….”

She cocked her head playfully, folding her arms. “Well then, master witcher, I guess you’re stuck down here for a while.”

“… yeah. I guess I am…”

The sorceress continued ooh-ing and ah-ing at the art in the subterranean chamber. “This fountain still works. It must be fed from the one above ground… and I’ll bet it empties into that pond at the bottom of the bluffs. Brilliant! This must have been some kind of bath house. Can you imagine how beautiful it would’ve been all those years ago?”

“Mmhmm,” Geralt replied absently. Triss turned around.

“Are you paying attention to anything I’m saying?”

“Mmhmm.”

Her eyebrows bent together in confusion. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He was silent. Her confusion intensified.

“Are you having another memory recall?”

“Nuh-uh.”

She chuckled lightly. “What is going on in that head of yours?”

“Oh, you know. Stuff.”

“Like?”

“Like you stink. A little.”

“Excuse me?”

“What I meant to say is, this _is_ a bath house…” he said with a devious grin, “and you could really use a bath.”

Awareness suddenly dawned on her face, and she took on a devious grin of her own. “You know, I think you’re right,” she said with mock seriousness, bending over to remove one dusty boot, then the other. “But then, so do you.” With a snap of her fingers, the magical light dimmed overhead, and she proceeded to remove first her trousers, then her blouse, and finally her lacy undergarments before casually wading into the water, sending ripples and waves across the glassy surface.

Geralt nearly tripped over his own feet, disrobing in a hurry and joining the naked sorceress in cool water, which reached a little over waist-high. She reached behind her head, untying the bands that restrained her hair, and shook it loose with intentionally provocative grace before sinking fully underwater. He was waiting when she resurfaced, back to his devious grin.

“You know, you’re doing it wrong,” he said. “You probably need some help with, uh… hard to reach places.”

“Hmm… I probably do,” she said, turning around and sweeping her long, soaked hair away from her back. He cupped water and slowly drizzled it on her shoulders, gently massaging the base of her skull, then her neck, then along the spine and between her shoulderblades. She sighed blissfully.

“You could take all the time you want on that,” she said, leaning into his touch.

“Not _too_ much time, though,” he replied, pressing up next to her and whispering in her ear. “There are plenty of other areas that need attention.”

The witcher and sorceress took their time finding and giving attention to many areas which had been neglected for much longer than either was accustomed to. The sounds of their satisfaction echoed in the ancient arches and corners of the bath house, and when all needs and desires had been adequately filled, they reclined together next to the fountain, not unlike the statue of lovers in the garden above.

“We should take walks more often,” Triss said, leaning back against Geralt’s chest and pulling his arms around her a little tighter. “For a while, I forgot all about the world up there. Flotsam, the Scoia’tael, the kingslayer… it was heavenly.”

“Nice to know I still have that power,” he said with a satisfied sigh.

“Oh, you do. I’ve missed this, Geralt. I’ve missed ‘us.’”

“I know. It’s just that-“

“Shh! Don’t spoil it!” She interrupted. “Can’t we have just a little more time to escape from reality?”

“Reality is not exactly waiting for us to finish here before it resumes.”

“I know, I know. Well… now that we have the flower, I can get to work on the treatment, but it’ll take some time to distill ingredients and write out the incantations… it could take a few days, and I can’t really start on that until tomorrow morning anyway. So, you’ve got time to spare.”

“A few days, huh? That’s perfect. That’ll give me time to get to Iorveth and kill Letho.”

“Geralt… you know you don’t have to.”

“Sure I do.”

“No, you really don’t.” Triss leaned to the side, turning her head to look at him. “Think about it - if this works… _when_ this works, and you get your memory back, it may… change your perspective. I mean, you’ll know what happened to Yennefer, and if she _is_ alive out there… if she somehow survived-“

“I’d have to find her, of course,” he interrupted, “but you don’t expect me to just drop everything and walk away, do you?”

“You could. Seriously. I-I mean, you don’t really owe him anything.”

“Roche saved my life, Triss. Besides that, I gave my word that I’d track the real killer down.”

“Which you did. You know where he is. Mission accomplished.”

“Why are you pushing so hard for this?

“I’m just afraid you’ll get caught up in something and you won’t be able to back out. Iorveth’s a sly old elf, he’s been fighting humans for a full century, at least… and Letho? He’s a witcher, Geralt, and you’re far from a hundred percent right now. It’s a mire, deep and hungry, and it could swallow you whole before you know it.” Triss turned fully around, looking Geralt in the eyes. “We can leave, you and I. I’d give it all up - court advising, status… I could even live at Kaer Morhen, if that’s what you want. We’ll get your memory back, and if Yen is out there, I’m prepared to travel to the end of the world with you to save her. I owe you that. I owe her that.”

“Triss…”

“Let me finish. If you want to go alone, I’ll understand… and I won’t try to persuade you otherwise. But I want to be with you. Wherever you are.”

“And what kind of life would that be? The life of a fugitive? Say I leave Letho to Roche, and he escapes again… I’d be dooming us both to a life of wandering, always looking over our shoulders. No. I have to clear my name. For both of us.”

“And… will there _be_ a ‘both of us?’” She asked cautiously.

He cupped her face with his hand, gently brushing his thumb across her cheek. “Only a fool would throw what we have away.”

She smiled incandescently, kissing him, then turning and leaning against his chest again. “Let’s stay a while longer.”

He lifted a hand up, inspecting it in the still-pale light. “I’m shriveling up like a prune.”

“Shhh…” she said, snapping her fingers again. The light disappeared, leaving only a narrow beam of moonlight from their entrance hole. “There. Now you can’t see it, so it doesn’t matter.”

“I can still s-“

“I _know_ , witcher,” she said, nuzzling in closer. “Hold me a little longer.”

They stayed in the bath house all night, sleeping skin to skin on the stone floor. Geralt held her tightly against his chest, soaking in the natural scent of her hair, which - though far less sweet than the iconic perfume she usually wore - was warm and powerfully comforting. He made a promise to himself that once the trouble with the kingslayer was resolved, he would stop sleeping alone. Triss’s company was therapeutic in a way that no wine or spirit could approximate, and the feeling was generally mutual. It was the best night of sleep either had logged in some time. In the morning they dressed and climbed out - she with a teleportation spell and he with the rope that she brought back.

“Are you sure you have to go after Iorveth?” Triss said as they prepared to part ways. “You could just stay here with me and harvest ingredients…”

“I’m sure. Gotta go catch up with Zoltan and devise a plan. The sooner we get to Letho, the sooner we get our lives back.”

She hugged him tightly. “Please, Geralt. _Please_ be careful.”

“I will. Goodbye Triss. See you soon.”


	8. Chapter 8

Now, let’s slow down and think this through,” Zoltan said nervously, stuffing a dull green substance in a pipe and walking over to the hearth to lite it. The dwarf puffed a few breaths of grey smoke, then walked back over to the table. “Eh… sit, Geralt. No need to be hasty.”

“I’m not being hasty, I’m being direct,” Geralt replied, annoyance beginning to color his usual flat tone. “I don’t know how much time I have before Letho slips away. I need you to get me in to see Iorveth _today_.”

“I see… well, it’s just that… ah, plough it! I’ll just come right out and say it. I don’t want ye to kill Iorveth. I’m not so sure he’s really the enemy here, and - now, hear me out - I know he’s got methods that we don’t approve of, no questioning that. But I think his heart’s in the right place. He wants what you and I want - peace between the races… i-in the long run, of course. The very… long run, eh… well whatever you think about him, the effort in Vergen needs him. Desperately.”

The Witcher leaned his forehead on his hand, stroking his temples with a sigh. “What effort?”

“Remember when I told ye the other day about that woman? ’The Dragon Slayer’ they call her. Saskia.”

“I remember. A human woman who killed a dragon single-handedly? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, believe it or no, the _army_ believes it. They believe in _her_.” Zoltan leaned in across the table. “Geralt, she’s begun a movement… a war, so to speak, for a free nation in upper Aedirn. A place where dwarves, men and elves are all treated equally, all share the land, all reap the profits. You were there in Rivia - you saw it. These northern kings, they don’t give two shites about non-humans. It’s the same here. It’s the same ploughin’ everywhere. The world needs a free state, and Iorveth and his men are to be part of that coalition fighting to win it - a very big part. Even now as we speak, that goat-ploughin’ king of Kaedwen’s marchin’ his troops down to try and strangle our chances in the cradle. Without Iorveth the whole thing’s buggered.”

“Listen, I’m no elf hunter - you should know that by now. Iorveth will have to answer for his actions, but that’s not my concern. I just want Letho.”

“Aye, but if ye lead Roche to ‘im, he’s as good as dead.”

“Then I won’t tell Roche. Help me. Get me in to see Iorveth. I know you’ve got a way.”

The dwarf’s bushy eyebrows lowered in concentration as he pondered his options, puffing billows of smoke into the already-thick air in Gefrin’s kitchen.

“There _might_ be a way. But if we do this, Geralt, you need to be warned - I have no sway with Iorveth. He may decide to run you through with a spear on sight, even if we approach under a flag of truce.”

“All I need is for him to hear me out. If he’s half as noble as you make him out to be, I can count on at least that much.”

Zoltan sighed heavily. “I still dinnae like it. Too risky. But you’re as damned headstrong as a mule, and I’m tired of trying to talk ye out of it. Alright. Give me a couple hours to throw some chum in the water. With luck, we’ll have an audience with him by day’s end.”

__

———————————————————

Zoltan’s ploy worked to perfection. Carrying a sack full of iron arrowheads covered in bannocks for discretion, he led the witcher past the guarded city gates and deep into the forest, winding a path toward the southeast for a solid twenty minutes. The afternoon heat was sweltering. Coupled with the humidity of the marshy wetlands surrounding the river, the air was almost tangibly thick. At some points, the canopy overhead was so thick it blotted out the sun altogether, producing beneath the high tree branches a thick layer of decomposing plant matter, which released a mildly sour odor with every squishy step. Geralt was thankful to have come upon the elves when they did. He heard the sentries before Zoltan, tensing up and flexing his fingers in preparation for a quick sword draw if things went badly.

“This is it,” Zoltan said, coming to a stop under a wide-canopy tree and placing his hands on his hips. The hike at a witcher’s pace was a strain for dwarven legs, and he was audibly panting beneath his coarse, sweaty beard. “All we’ve to do now is catch our breath… hoooo… and wait for them to arrive.”

“No need,” Geralt replied, matter-of-factly, breath as calm as if he’d been soaking in a tub. Which, coincidentally, is exactly what it looked like he’d been doing, hair clumped in sweat-damp curls. “They’re already here. Pointing arrows at us.”

“What? Quit messin’ around.”

“I’m not,” he replied, placing his hands above his head in a gesture of surrender… and a stance from which he could quickly unsheathe his sword. “Give them the password. They’re getting edgy.”

The dwarf looked at his friend with furrowed brows, but soon gave a shrug and shouted into the thick, green foliage around them “ _Kier-ke-gaard_!”

A tall, black-haired elf appeared a stone’s throw from them, seemingly materializing out of the leaves. He swiftly closed the distance between them with muted steps, his braided, silky hair swooshing about on his leather-clad shoulders like a feather duster. “Stop bawling,” he chided in a hushed, throaty tone. “What do you want?”

“Countersign?” Zoltan challenged, still much louder than the elf, who was accompanied by a similarly tall and sinewy female a few paces back.

The dark-haired elf scoffed, dropping his head to the side and rolling his eyes. “ _Hei-de-gger_. Now, I asked you a question.”

“Take us to Iorveth,” the dwarf said bluntly.

“Why?”

“We have a private matter to discuss with him,” Geralt said, consciously adding a hint of urgency to his tone. “It’s a matter of his safety.”

The elf looked the witcher up and down, his mouth drawing to a condescending frown. “Iorveth won’t talk to you.”

“Sure he will,” Geralt replied.

“Leave while you’re still able, _vatt’ghern_ ,” the elf said, jutting out his jaw and speaking with quiet animosity. The she-elf behind him took a wooden bow from her shoulder and nocked an arrow.

Zoltan huffed a laugh defiantly. “Come now, the two of you won’t scare us off!”

“Easy, Zoltan,” Geralt said, holding eye contact with the elf. “There are four more in that tree.”

“Oh?” The elf replied, the muscles of his face twinging with nearly imperceptible concern. “And how would you know?”

“I can hear them breathing. One’s sick… or on fisstech.”

The elf’s face went from concerned to astonished. “How…?”

“He’s wheezing,” Geralt said, a smile creeping to the corner of his creased mouth.

“Listen here,” Zoltan said, emboldened by Geralt’s display. “If we meant ye harm, ye’d be lying in a puddle of your own spit an’ blood. We just want to talk to Iorveth. That’s all.”

The elf pursed his lips, staring at them through narrowed eyes for three or four long breaths. “Very well. Wait in the clearing. The dwarf knows the place. If Iorveth sees fit to speak with you, he will meet you there.”

Zoltan looked up at his friend with one raised eyebrow. “Easy as pie, eh? Let’s, uh, get a move on, shall we?”

The duo walked deeper still into the sprawling forest, climbing a steep incline until they descended into a small valley with nothing growing over waist-high. There they waited for upwards of an hour before Geralt heard the creeping of approaching archers, taking up positions all around them with coordinated precision. He was surrounded.

The leader of the Scoia’tael band sauntered down the near hillside, hand resting on the hilt of his curved iron saber.

“What do you want, vatt’ghern? Speak quickly, before I kill you both.”

“Such hospitality, Iorveth,” Geralt said, unintimidated by the presence of the archers. “And here, I was told elven chivalry was a lost art.”

“Choose your next words carefully, witcher,” Iorveth replied, bearing his teeth with a menacing smile. “You have no sorceress to surround you with butterflies this time.”

“I don’t need her,” he replied. “I come in peace. To warn you.”

“In peace? A dwarf who’s unsure where his loyalties lie and a witcher who seeks an ugly death? You’ll forgive me for my disbelief.”

“I’m trying to _prevent_ an ugly death;” Geralt said, searching the elf’s face, “ _yours_. Unless you want to suffer the same fate as Ciaran’s regiment, you should hear me out. The same killer who betrayed them seeks your life.”

“And what would you know about that?” Iorveth countered, drawing his sword slowly and rotating it in the glistening late-afternoon sun.

“Ciaran had a lot to say about it. He told me Letho, whom you shelter, sought his help to overthrow you. When Ciaran refused, Letho gutted your brethren. But make no mistake, he’ll find another way to get to you.”

“You lie,” Iorveth said through gritted teeth, the indifference sliding off his face like water. “Ciaran fell three days ago.”

“I spoke with him - or what’s left of him - on Loredo’s prison barge just yesterday. He told me about the roses of remembrance you cultivate, and pleaded with me to warn you before Letho removes your head like he did Demavend’s.”

Iorveth looked off into the distance in thought, gently running his thumb across the edge of his sharpened blade rhythmically. “Ciaran was a great loss to us… If you speak the truth, Letho will die. But why should I believe you? How am I to know you weren’t the one to deal the blow?”

“You have elves throughout the forest,” Geralt replied calmly. “If I killed your best fighters, do you really think I’d walk out here on my own to gloat?”

“That’s not very convincing, d’hoine… but for Ciaran’s sake, we will investigate it. Let us present your sensational accusation to Letho. We shall see how he reacts, and one witcher will die. _At least_ one.”

“Where is he?”

“Lurking among the ruins of Cáelmewedd, I would imagine. I can’t be sure. He _has_ been fairly reclusive recently… which, as I think of it, does add some credence to your claim. Letho is a dull-witted brute, but he’s not stupid. If we’re to learn the truth, we’ll need a ruse.” He thought for a long moment in silence. “Bind my hands. Take me to him, and tell him you want to hand me over. If you speak the truth, his reaction will confirm it. And if you lie… well, my warriors will have a dozen arrows fixed upon you at all times. Witcher or not, you won’t block them all.”

“What about Zoltan?” Geralt asked.

“Well, we can’t very well let him leave, now that he’s privy to our operation.” The elf snapped his fingers. “Amwydd! Escort our bearded friend back to town by way of Lobinden. And take your time.”

“I hope ye ken what you’re doin,’” Zoltan muttered to his friend, going obediently into the custody of one of Iorveth’s fighters.

“So do I,” Geralt replied.

The elves wasted no time setting their plan into motion. It was an hour’s journey from the clearing to the elven ruins where Letho was believed to be. Unsure of when he’d have another chance, Geralt queried the grizzled leader of the elven bandits along the way.

“What’s your angle, Iorveth? Zoltan says I shouldn’t be too quick to lump you in with common bandits, but I fail to see why. What are you hoping to accomplish? Hiding in the woods, killing berry-pickers, eating roots…”

“We live by our own rules out here,” Iorveth replied, plucking a cluster of purplish berries from a nearby branch and popping them one by one into his mouth. “At times, our methods may be unsavory to some, but that’s not my concern. We do what’s necessary to attain our goal - chivalrous or not.”

“And what goal might that be?”

The elf scoffed. “What’s it to you, vatt’ghern? I know your type. You’d probably tell me to stuff it up my ass.”

“You might be surprised,” Geralt countered. “Try me.”

Iorveth chewed a few more berries before responding. “Alright, then. Listen well The two dead kings were whoresons who’d damn their own children to stay in power. Believe it or not, their death had little to do with race and more to do with utter moral depravity. They were unworthy of the crowns they wore, and Letho did both the Aen Seidhe and the dh’oine a favor by relieving the world of them. I, however, fight for a different leader. A common woman, with common goals who remembers what it’s like to live amongst actual people.”

“You, follow a dh’oine? And a woman, at that? Is this ‘commoner’ Saskia of Vergen, by chance?”

Iorveth’s face lit up. “So you know of her? Yes. I follow a dh'oine woman, which is precisely the point. She is utterly unlike your fat and lazy monarchs. She is uniquely able to inspire men, elves and dwarves to fight for what should be. For what the common people deserve. A free state where all stand on equal footing.”

“I find it hard to believe someone who’s suffered at the hands of men - and who’s shed the blood of many - would be able to stomach such a utopian dream world.”

“There’s nothing _utopian_ about it,” Iorveth countered defensively. “The only path to peace is by fighting for it. The only way to preserve it is to defend it with arrow and sword. Such a realm would need protecting, and I would be the first to lend my weapons toward it, but war itselfis not the goal. _Aed f'haeil moen Hirjeth taenverde_.”

“Conquer with courage, rather than strength,” Geralt translated.

Iorveth clapped his hands mockingly. “Correct. So not all of the vatt’ghern are blunt objects of destruction. Let’s hope your wit is as sharp as your vocabulary. The ruins approach. Come, bind my hands. And may I remind you that should you try anything stupid-“

“I know, I know. A dozen arrows through the heart. Just tell your elves to keep a wider distance. A witcher will both smell and hear them long before you’re accustomed to with Loredo’s men.”

“You forget these are my lands, Gwynbleidd. I sneak up on whomever I please. But thank you for the concern. Now, enough chatting. You must stay in character. Let’s go.”

Long before they reached the stone archways of Cáelmewedd, Geralt realized he was already quite familiar with the location - especially a certain subterranean segment with a rather large bath. He entered by the exact same pathway as he had just a day prior, chuckling at the wild divergence in company.

“Geralt of Rivia,” the bald man said slowly, speaking in a scratchy bass with both the accent and cadence of a rural, working class commoner. He was perched casually on the border of an empty fountain basin, whittling a stick with a broad-bladed dagger. “I noticed someone had been rooting around in my little garden. Even broke a hole in the floor. Somehow not surprised it would be you. I am curious, though - why'd you bring the elf?”

Geralt yanked on Iorveth’s bound hands forcefully, bringing him stumbling forward. “I’m here to see if you’ve got a better offer than Loredo.”

“Iorveth - the woodland fox. Caught at last. I underestimated you, brother.”

“Brother?” Geralt replied, kicking Iorveth in the back of the knee and bringing him to a kneeling pose in front of him. “I don’t even know you.”

Letho grinned across his wide, stubble-darkened face. “You really don’t remember?”

“No. And I’m getting tired of that question.”

“And here I thought you’d ruin it all. Well, hot damn. Maybe we can work together after all. ‘It’d be just like old times.” He rose to his feet, placing the dagger in a scabbard lashed to his chest, and took two steps toward Geralt and his prisoner. “I am Letho of Gullet. Kingslayer, as they like to call me. And I thank you for the trouble of bringing me the squirrel, but I’m a little short on coin at the moment. If you were hoping I’d outbid Loredo for his head, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Geralt could hear Iorveth’s pulse quicken sharply. He had the confirmation he wanted.

“I’m not looking for coin,” Geralt said in an unemotional, business-like tone. “I need to clear my name. You wanna play the kingslayer, that’s fine, but I have a reputation to keep up. Being wanted for regicide is bad for business. Look - I understand you’re a middle man. Tell me who you’re working for and how to find them, and I’ll hand over the elf.”

“No, you _don’t_ get it, friend. We work for ourselves.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”

“The kingslayers, of course.”

“Why go through all the trouble to assassinate Demavend, then Foltest? Who’s next? Who the hell are you?”

“Just witchers on the path, but you know all about that. Or at least, you did. It’s a shame - your memory. You saved my life once, White Wolf. We fought side by side, you and I. Maybe we can again. ‘Business’ is overrated. Let’s be honest - it never did pay well.”

“So kill for free instead? Why?”

Letho eyed Iorveth suspiciously. “No one got killed that didn’t need killing. They earned what they got, just like your little idealist prisoner. There. I told you what you wanted. You gonna hand him over, or am I gonna have to take him from you?”

“Bastard!” Iorveth hissed, spitting. “You’ll die - the three of you together.”

“You’re wrong there, squirrel,” Letho said slowly, taking another step toward him. “Serrit and Auckes will be long gone before the elves in the Pontar Valley know you’re dead…” he stopped mid-sentence, turning his head slightly. “…archers approaching. And…” He pulled his dagger back out of its scabbard, drawing a slightly slimmer one from his belt with the other hand. “What kind of game are you playing, Wolf?”  
“One you just lost,” he said defiantly, muscles tense in preparation for a fight.

“Enough of this!” Iorveth shouted, yelling a command in elder speech. Letho leapt backward and took cover as Scoia’tael came running into the garden behind a volley of arrows… only to be cut down by a volley of crossbow bolts. From the opposite side of the courtyard, a war cry erupted as men dressed in blue-striped gambesons came rushing into the fray. In the span of a breath, the once-peaceful garden erupted into cacophonous, bloody chaos.

“My sword, Gwynbleidd!” Iorveth shouted, turning toward Geralt, who still held the elf’s saber. “Please!”

Geralt dropped it on the stone tile in front of Iorveth, dashing through the flurry of projectiles after Letho, who was attempting to flee. He cast Aard, sending a pulse of air ahead of him and knocking the kingslayer to the ground. He deftly rolled when he hit the pavement, whirling around and ending in a crouch facing Geralt.

“We really gonna do this, Wolf?” He asked, daggers raised in preparation for a strike. “I’d rather not have to kill you.”

Geralt drew his long, steel sword, locking his arms in an attack stance. “You ready to answer for two regicides?”

“No.”

“Alright then.”

“Aw, hell. Have it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

In a split-second action that only a witcher could take, Letho reached into a pouch on his waist and tossed a small, bundled orb the size of a plum toward his opponent. It exploded on impact, flashing a blinding light and filling the immediate vicinity with a dense, green-hued plume of smoke. Letho dashed through the cloud, striking high with one hand and around the midsection with the other. Geralt parried the upper blade and rotated his torso just enough to escape the second, swinging downward with his sword and narrowly missing the thigh of his attacker. A pulse of energy knocked him backward, and he quickly shuffled his feet to prepare for another attack, which came even faster than the previous one. Bright, metallic tones clanged loudly as the two witchers struck and parried, trading blows with nearly equal precision. For a moment, neither was able to get an advantage on the other, but Letho’s strength afforded him more forward momentum, and Geralt was forced to give up ground, retreating gradually toward the din of the battle behind them, which was now in full swing.

The first blood of the duel was drawn not by a blade, but by a a forehead, as Geralt countered a huge right hook and lunged in to smash Letho’s nose with a sickening crack. Unfazed, the kingslayer leaned back to escape a swipe at the level of his throat, and put his boot solidly against Geralt’s abdomen, sending him staggering backward. He regained his balance and took hold of Letho’s vest as he lunged forward, intending to use the massive man’s weight as momentum to send him tumbling into a stone pillar. The power of Letho’s mass and velocity were more than Geralt anticipated, however, and instead of throwing Letho, they both went tumbling over a shin-height ledge, through the moss-lined marble pavement and into the bath house below, just a few yards from the existing hole opened under very different circumstances.

Geralt had the misfortune of landing between the stone floor and a three hundred pound mammoth of a witcher. He cried out in pain as the sudden compression on his skeleton cracked his newly-repaired ribs along the previous fissures. Reacting on pure adrenaline, he rolled his still-disoriented opponent off of him and into the water, which bought him just enough time to clamber to his feet and assume a defensive stance. Waves of pain surged through his entire midsection, but he gripped his sword firmly and struck out as Letho stepped back onto the paved floor. A wide arc overhead, a pirouetting slash at the temples, an upward thrust, a feint and sideswipe… he tried every approach, but to no avail. Letho’s reflexes were too sharp, his ripostes too strong. By the time Geralt’s blade finally struck flesh - missing the brachial artery but carving a deep wound in the brute’s shoulder - he was exhausted. The shallow breaths his cracked ribs necessitated simply weren’t enough for a fight of such vigorous pace. Sensing his fatigue, Letho seized the opportunity to go back on the offensive, unleashing a flurry of slashes, stabs and even punches, until he finally dealt a critical blow. His wide, razor-edged dagger cut from mid-thigh to Geralt’s knee, scraping against his kneecap with a hideous grinding sound and spilling ample amounts of warm, red blood on the dusty stone floor. Letho reared back and kicked the hobbled witcher with all his might, planting him flat on his back, breathless. He knocked the sword out of Geralt’s hand, stepping on his fingers as he struggled with all his might to draw just one breath from underneath a ribcage broiling in pain.

“I see you remember how to fight,” Letho drawled, breathing heavily and wiping blood from his nose. “Forgot common sense, though. Every witcher knows - go into a fight lame, and you don’t come out. You shoulda let me be.”

“C… can’t let you…” Geralt wheezed, gasping desperately for air.

“Since when do witchers give a shit about justice? Listen, you saved my life not so long ago, so I owe you one. But your little stunt with Iorveth has cost me a lot of time… and the element of surprise. I won’t tolerate a pain in my ass. Next time you get in my way, I _will_ kill you. Trust me on this one, brother. Let it go.” He lifted his foot from Geralt’s hand, walking over to the hole and peering up as he uncoiled a rope from his belt. He tossed the hooked end upward a few times until he finally secured it on something above ground. “That witch of yours is good with magic. Think she’ll be able to teleport me to Aedirn? Don’t worry - if she behaves, I won’t have to rough her up too badly. But then, you always seem drawn to the fiery ones, don’t you?”  
“I’ll find you,” Geralt croaked, trying without success to climb back to his feet.

“I don’t doubt you’ll try. But you’ll be too late. Again.”

Geralt collapsed back to the floor, growing dizzy as he worked to slow his heart rate and calm his breathing. His vision suddenly darkened around the edges as unconsciousness pressed against his will like an enveloping fog. He ignored Letho’s escape, focusing desperately on applying pressure to his wounded leg with a torn-off shirt sleeve and his belt. Another wave of darkness rushed over him, leaving only sounds. Above ground, the fight was waning. The twang of bowstrings and thudding of arrows piercing flesh were gone, replaced by the clanging of steel and groans of pain as men and elves cut each other down amidst the ornately carved archways and sprawling flowerbeds of the lovers’ garden. The plodding of iron-soled temerian boots against the smooth stone tiles far outnumbered the patter of leather elven wraps - either the Scoia’tael had fled, or they’d been routed. He tried to cry out to Roche and his men for help, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper. Before he could gather the breath for another try, the darkness filled the rest of his senses, ushering him into the deep abyss of the subconscious.


	9. Missing Person

The campfire sizzled faintly, reduced mostly to coals, which still glowed in orange and red dots among the grey ashes. Letho had left the rabbit haunches on the heat too long - they were burned beyond any hope of flavor. Auckes cracked a joke, but Geralt couldn’t make it out. He couldn’t make any words out, only faces. Familiar. Rough and road-weary like his own, all with the telltale golden-yellow eyes of witchers. He rotated his studded gloved left hand, inspecting the damage to the wrist brace. _Damn those wild hunt bastards_ , he thought, picking at the frayed leather edges where an axe narrowly missed removing his forearm. _They’re getting better at fighting back. They’re learning. Damn elves_. Serrit pulled the charred meat from the coals, holding a skewered piece of flesh toward Geralt.

“Hold still,” he said, his voice far too high-pitched to fit with his face. “Hold still, or you’ll make it worse. Geralt? Are you listening?” Suddenly, the witcher’s mild feeling of confusion deepened.

“Serrit?” He asked, trying to reach out to take the meat, but oddly unable to move his arm. “Where’s Triss?”

“Somebody get down here and hold him down,” Serrit shouted… but after a few blinks, it wasn’t Serrit at all, but a young, blond-haired woman with high, rosy cheekbones and eyebrows furrowed in exasperated concentration. Geralt felt an excruciating pain in his leg and came rushing back to awareness at once, groaning deeply and trying with all his might not to fight the woman who was bandaging his wound.

“You awake now, Geralt?” Ves asked, looking up from her work on his leg for a moment. “That assassin carved you up good. Cleaved you to the goddamn bone. Good thing you witchers heal quickly.”

“How…” he started, sliding into a round of coughs that brought about a wail of pain. “How long… was I out?” He asked.

“I dunno. Couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Just now cleaning up the site, making sure all the squirrels are good and dead. There - that oughta keep you from bleeding out on us. Think you can walk?”

“Triss,” Geralt replied, shaking his head and forcing himself to sit up. “Where is she? Letho is headed for her. N… ugh… mmmmm… needs her to teleport him to… to Aedirn.”

“Triss? I dunno, haven’t seen her since yesterday. Who’s Letho?”

“The kingslayer. Help me up. I have to find her. Warn her.”

Ves’s face turned stern, eyes wide. “Look for her? You need to lay here and not bleed to death. We’ll look for her, but first, we need to try and catch up with the ones that got away. Their leader escaped, but his ranks are thinned out. We’ve gotta strike the finishing blow.”

“Fine, just…” he coughed again, and sharp pains racked his ribs like fresh stab wounds. “Help me get topside.”

She helped him to his feet, bearing most of his weight on her shoulder, and got him to the rope. After a signal, the men on the other end of the line hoisted him back above ground. He took a moment to gather his bearings, then immediately began hobbling down the path toward town, despite the protestations of Ves and a few other Blue Stripe commandos still left behind to finish off survivors.

Geralt wanted desperately to run, but a fast, limping walk is all his injured leg could handle. He opened the small pouch on the side of his belt, and was relieved to find a few glass bottles still intact. Uncorking one, he promptly swallowed its contents and continued on the path. About two minutes later, the sensation of pain in his leg dulled considerably, as did the ache in his ribs. It did not, however, replace the blood his body had lost, nor enrich his lungs with oxygen which his shallow breathing lacked. Before he was a third of the way back to Flotsam, the darkening around the edges of his vision returned, intensifying abruptly. Geralt cursed bitterly, sitting on the damp, green ground and trying with all his will to stay conscious. He failed.

This time, his sleep was truly void. The night sky was a deep, dark starless roof above the world when he awoke. Judging by the faint glow of the moon discernible behind the dense cloud cover, it was somewhere between eleven pm and midnight. The Witcher climbed to his feet again, cursing even more foully than before, and hastened to town.

Well before reaching the high wooden walls defending the settlement, he could detect the acrid smell of burning flesh, growing stronger with each stumbled step. A little closer in, he could hear shrieks of horror, angry shouts and wails of anguish. Something was horribly wrong in Flotsam. Grunting with each breath, he forced his legs into a jog, bursting through the unguarded perimeter door of the nearest gate. Once inside the city, the situation became disturbingly clear. An elf lay in the muddy street, skull caved in from a savage beating, ears cut off. Across the alley, a half-naked she-elf stared blankly into the distance, trembling and sobbing, as she clutched her bare breasts with bruised and bloodied arms. A dwarf stumbled toward him, hand pressed against the side of the alley. His eyes had been gouged out and his beard torn from his face in bloody clumps.

Geralt hurried to the village square, where the scene was even more grim. A handful of elves and dwarves dotted the common space, impaled on makeshift stakes. Some twitched and moaned; others were burned or mutilated beyond recognition. A handful of women picked at an overturned cart like vultures on a carcass, looting the remains of what had been a dwarven peddler’s wares. Nearby, an elven woman whimpered as a group of teenage boys took turns raping her. It was so much to take in that for a moment, Geralt lost track of why he’d come to the town in the first place. Enraged by the depravity so brazenly displayed by the rioters, he became violent himself, chasing the looting women from the cart, tearing a broken beam from its side, and proceeding to beat the teenage boys with it. They fled in wide-eyed terror, leaving their victim in a pool of her own blood. She’d been stabbed in the abdomen repeatedly, and lay there sobbing, trying to hold a segment of her intestines in with quivering hands.

“Please… please sir,” she begged in a miserable, emaciated voice. “I can’t take any more. Please…”

“I’m not going to hurt you. What happened here?” Geralt asked, attempting to kneel beside her. He quickly abandoned the idea due to the resurgence of pain in his bloodied thigh.

“Th-th-the… the guards,” she stammered, “they f-f-fought the squirrels. Many died. They st… stirred up the town against us. Murdered m-m-m… my brother!” She burst into deep sobs, coughing up blood. Geralt reached into his boot and drew a small knife, handing it to the young lady.

“Leave the city now. It should be safe the way I came in. If any men try to… to _harm_ you, plunge this into their throats. Understand?”

She nodded.

He turned his attention to the inn, where he heard a familiar voice shouting.

“Come back with that! It’s an irreplaceable instrument! No - no, no, no, no - don’t you dare… don’t do that. Please, I beg you, in the name of the arts!”

Dandelion was chasing a portly, shirtless man who was making off with a lute, a couple of candelabras, and what looked like a fur rug. He gave up the pursuit, throwing his hands up in frustration and turning just in time to see Geralt approach.

“Geralt! Where have you been? The whole town’s gone mad!”

“I can see that,” he half-shouted over the noise of breaking glass and screaming women. “Listen - Triss is in danger. I need to find her. Have you seen her anywhere?”  
“Triss? I saw her… around lunch. She came in for food, said she was gathering herbs for a potion, and of course, I asked her what it was for, and then she suddenly got all cryptic, like there was this huge mystery about it, or maybe a plot that I wasn’t-“

“Get to the point, damnit! Where is she?”

“Lobinden. I think. Said she had to get more ingredients from an elf there. Say, you don’t think it’s this bad there, too, do you?”

“Could be worse,” he said, grabbing his friend by the collar. “Listen to me. You need to get the hell out of here. Leave everything and go. Right now.”

“Go? Where? You don’t expect me to run into the forest at midnight do you? I’d take my chances with rioters over nekkers any day.”

“Fine, then hide. Or do something, just get off the streets. The crowd is dangerous, even for you. _Humans_ think. _Humans_ are logical. _Crowds_ react. Understand?”

“Don’t have to tell me twice. I’m going."

Geralt left his friend outside the Inn and limped as quickly as his wound would allow toward the gate leading to Lobinden. He could see the glow of fire above the city walls and feel the intense heat radiating from the neighboring, predominantly elven, village as he approached the gate.

“Oi! No one in or out,” a middle-aged guard shouted as he approached, teeth rotting beneath a scraggly black and white beard. “Commandant’s orders.”

“Get out of my way,” the witcher commanded, towering over the diminutive man, who didn’t even come up to his shoulders.

“I-its n-nnnnnnnnot permitted-“

“Then report me,” Geralt replied, shoving the man out of the way and barging through the gate. Sure enough, Lobinden was even worse than Flotsam. Several huts and tree houses were raging with yellow and orange flames, pulsing with heat that was painfully intense, even from a distance. Utterly at a loss to find the elven herbalist, Cedric, he tried to enlist help from what townspeople were still alive and nearby. He came upon an elderly human man who sat in bloodstained rags, staring glassy-eyed at a small house which was in the process of collapsing one post or beam at a time.

“Hey - I need your help,” he said to the man. “Have you seen a chestnut-haired young lady come through here? Very fair, well-dressed…”

The man said nothing.

“Sir, please…”

He wouldn’t even look in Geralt’s direction. He was in shock. Further into the village, the horrors intensified. The charred remains of a couple lie in a blackened heap, bodies still clinging to each other inside the burned-out frame that had once been the structure of a house. Nearby, three severed elven heads were impaled on the same iron spear like a grotesque kabob, their eyes staring hauntingly into the night sky. Geralt stumbled down the blood-stained pathway, stepping across piles of entrails and pieces of torn garments, until at last he found another survivor, an elf with a large gash on the back of his skull that had rent a portion of his hair and scalp from him. He crouched down next to the elf, speaking as calmly as he could, given the urgency of his mission.

“You’re hurt, friend. Can I help you?”

The elf looked up at him with weary resignation. “I think I shall die. They’ve killed me. They’ve killed us all.”

“Can you help me? I’m looking for Cedric, the herbalist. A young lady came here earlier, seeking him. They’re both in terrible danger.”

“Cedric. Cedric… ah, yes. I know him.”

“Where can I find him? Please, it’s urgent. I can tend to your wound.”

“To the end of this road, then left. Four houses down. Or is it five? It’s somewhere around there. That is, if they haven’t burned it down. As for me, I am dying. They have killed my Valetta. I wish to die with her.”

Geralt had no time to argue. He thanked the elf and followed his directions to a small hut at the base of a grand oak tree. The door was open, with clear signs of forced entry. The interior was filled with smashed bottles, scattered roots and trampled bundles of herbs - it was clearly the right place. There was no sign of the elf, but there was a sizable amount of blood - elven - near the door, with a trail leading into the forest. Geralt followed the trail, which was no easy task in the darkness of a clouded night, until at last he heard the wheezing of labored, uneven breaths in the distance. Led by the sound, he pressed through a dense thicket, and came upon a body, curled up amidst blood-soaked leaves.

“Cedric?” He said, lowering himself gingerly beside the elf, who turned slightly, resting on his back. Blood slowly oozed from his lower right abdomen. From the weak and sporadic cadence of his heartbeat, he’d already lost too much to recover from.

“Gwynbleidd… why have… you come?” He asked, forcing his eyes to open momentarily before closing them again.

“Did Triss come to you? Was she there when-“

“Your sorceress? She… was not… when…” he stopped for a moment, took a deep, intentional breath, and started again. “She came earlier, looking for balisse seeds. She asked me… oh… just a moment… … she… asked me to help her spy on the other sorceress…”

“Sile?”

“I think so, Yes.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t say. I declined… Too much… oh, never mind. What does it matter now? The dh’oine, they came, not an hour ago. They…I tried to escape…”

“I’m sorry, Cedric.”

His face bent into an ironic, tragic smile. “Iorveth and his damned vengeance… he aroused the hatred of the dh’oine. … … It was your own prophet, Lebioda, who… who said those who live by the sword die by the sword… … and his… his anger has brought… so much d-… so… much death. Put an end to my suffering, vatt’ghern. Please. I am ready… to go where the apple trees bloom eternal.”

Moved to pity, Geralt rose again to his feet and slowly drew his sword.

“She loves you, you know…” Cedric said feebly, eyes closed and lips barely moving. “Very much, I think. She talked about… …”

“You won’t feel anything,” Geralt said, breathing as deeply as his pain would allow and placing the tip of his sword against the elf’s temple.

“I am ready. Va fail, Gwynbleidd.”

The Witcher closed his eyes and thrust swiftly. The shallow gasping ceased.

“Va fail.”

He turned and limped back into town, brushing past the scraggly-bearded guard a second time, and heading straight to the inn. The town was a bit quieter now, as most of the victims of the massacre were either dead or in hiding. Rounding the corner, he saw the body of the elven woman he’d given the dagger to earlier. She lay dead, sprawled out in the muddy street, half dressed, her ivory-white throat slit from ear to ear. The sight incensed him. Common house pets were given more dignity upon dying. Pressing the scene to the recesses of his mind, he continued on, climbing the wooden stairs to the brothel and its guest quarters.

Another empty room, another broken door.

Síle’s room had been ransacked, her megascope lying in broken pieces on the floor. A quick inspection of the space revealed no traces of blood, which was a relief. What it didn’t immediately reveal, though, is what took place there. Geralt found a long, red-gold hair left by Triss, large, muddy bootprints, and a small pouch of gold, which could only have been left behind by someone fleeing in a hurry. Most interesting of his discoveries was a small hole in the wall adjacent to the brothel. A thin beam of light shone from the other side of the hole, which was just large enough for an eye to observe things through. Hoping for a break, he went back outside, knocking on the still-intact brothel door and waiting impatiently.

“We’re closed,” the weary-sounding madame said from inside. “Go home and lay with your wife.”

“I’m not here for girls,” he replied, speaking right into the crease of the door. “I just need to ask a few questions. It’s a matter of life and death.”

He knocked again, more urgently this time, until at last, the madame opened the door. “You again,” She said, pursing her lips. “Step inside. Quickly.”

Once the door was closed behind him, he presented his case. “I’m looking for a friend - a young woman, chestnut hair, green and white blouse. She may have come here looking for s-“

“The other sorceress,” the madame interrupted. “I know of whom you speak. She was here, but… I’m afraid I have no good news to give you.”

“Tell me, then. Good or bad.”

__

———————————————————

The locking mechanism on the door turned with a simple spell, giving a satisfying click as it acquiesced and opened into the room. Triss was pleasantly surprised, but quickly became suspicious. It was unlike an elite sorceress to leave her room without a magical barrier to bolster such primitive safeguards as a lock and key. Either Síle had become sloppy of late, or she’d been forced to leave in a hurry. A quick perusal of her belongings left no obvious clues to her whereabouts, nor to the greater mystery - why she was really in Flotsam. In the corner of the room, Síle’s megascope sat tantalizingly unprotected, offering the answers Triss sought at the expense of her anonymity. She folded her arms, leaning against the wall and bit her lip as she vacillated between knowledge and being found out. In the end, her drive for answers was stronger. Peeking her head out the door to ensure no one was around (then locking herself in for good measure), she uttered a long incantation, bringing the device to life with a bright green flash and reconnecting her to the most recent recipient of telecommunication from the room. There was a long, uncomfortable pause - long enough that Triss had second thoughts about what she was doing, and started to turn the device off - but before she could speak the words, a colorless, hazy image of a woman appeared in the center of the three orbs. Triss gasped, heart lurching inside her chest like a child who’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

It was Philippa Eilhart.

“Triss? What on _earth_ are you doing using Síle’s megascope?” She asked in her sophisticated, perpetually condescending voice. “I can’t believe she approved it. She’d sooner loan you her toothbrush.”

“She’s oblivious to it,” Triss replied, trying to conceal her panic with nonchalance.

“Obviously,” the elder sorceress replied, eyeing her suspiciously. “So then, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanna know what the two of you are up to. Why did you send Síle here?”

Philippa scoffed, tilting her head with a haughty smile. “My dear, you’ve only to ask her. It’s not as if we’re conspiring behind your back.” Though she - like nearly all sorceresses - used magic to give herself a youthful appearance, Philippa was over three hundred years old, a fact betrayed by her voice and mannerisms.

“I shouldn’t have to ask, Philippa. There was a time when we all discussed these things _together_. ”

“There was a time when you didn’t so readily insert yourself in situations which didn’t concern you, little Merigold. Are you still so naive as to think duplicity and discretion to be vices?” She sighed, rolling her eyes and placing a hand on her hip. “Very well. If you must know, Síle’s in Flotsam because we’ve a rather ingenious solution to Henselt’s trouble conceiving an heir.”

“Henselt? You’re not seriously considering sending another one of us to his court…”

“Oh, I am. And how.”

Triss sputtered a few incoherent syllables, so frustrated that it took her a moment to form a proper sentence. “For gods’ sake, Philippa! He burned Sabrina at the stake! You can’t send another victim to that… that… _monster_.”

“And what would you have us do with Kaedwen? Leave it to the whims of a bull-headed warmonger? No, little one. We’ve remained on the outside long enough. We must regain influence, and that kayran is the key. You see, thanks to Síle’s alchemical expertise, she’s about to offer to the king that which he most desires - a cure to his infertility. In exchange, Síle will supplant Dethmold as chief advisor, and we’ll be able to halt Kaedwen’s dangerous expansion.”

“And I take it this man-eating beast, which was artificially mutated by _magic_ , appeared out of pure coincidence?”

“Naturally.”

“So you’ll send Síle to her death at Henselt’s next murderous whim. And what of Kovir? Has she been relieved of her duties there?”

“My dear, you are all pieces on a chessboard. It is not for you to question my strategy. Each must play her role, where and when she is needed. Speaking of which, would you care to explain to me why you’re in Flotsam instead of exerting influence in Vizima? Surely you understand how volatile the political situation is there.”

“They ran me out of town, Philippa. If I went back now I’d be ostracized at best. Maybe killed. I have to help Geralt clear his name so I can regain the nobles’ trust.”

“Oh, Triss… foolish girl. Stop thinking with your hormones and look at this with a clear head. The witcher is a political anchor around your neck. Leave him before he pulls you under. I’ve been telling you this for some time, you know. You should have listened to me.”

“Well like it or not, my fate’s tied to his now. I’m _not_ leaving him.”

Philippa sighed demonstratively. “And you wonder why we choose to exclude you from some matters. Two things should be partaken cold - sorrel soup and politics. I chose you for this position because I believed you could keep a clear head and think logically. Perhaps I misjudged you.”

“Perhaps you did.”

“Shame. I’d hate to have to recruit someone else to serve the Temerian court - once the issue of succession is resolved.”

“Speaking of… why aren’t you in Redania? I heard you left abruptly. Where are you?”

“You really are the curious one, aren’t you? I’m in Aedirn, attempting to keep the whole of the nation from being swallowed up by Henselt.”

“How do you plan to do that? They were barely holding together _before_ Demavend’s assassination.”

“By supporting a stronger leader. There’s a woman here with quite the following - ‘Saskia the Dragonslayer’ they call her. Poppycock, of course, but the masses believe she’s a hero. She’s young, beautiful, intelligent-“

“And easily manipulated?”

Philippa smiled deviously. “So your naiveté has its limits. Yes, we’ve been discretely supporting her meteoric rise to power. Even the crown prince fears her - he follows her with reluctance, of course, for he has no other option. With our tutelage, Saskia will repulse Henselt’s advances, break off from Aedirn and form a new, sovereign state.”

“One that the Lodge controls.”

“More or less. Though you make it sound like a bad thing. Come now, have you forgotten our purpose? You really should take stock in your values and decisions, Triss. I’m beginning to doubt your… reliability.”

“Keep me informed, Philippa. I can still do what’s required of me.”

“I do hope so. Now, I must be going. I want you back in Vizima as soon as possible. And in the mean time… try to stay out of trouble.”

The image disappeared, and Triss buried her head in her hands.

“Of _all_ the people…” she lamented to herself, shuddering as Philippa’s stern, disapproving face lingered in her mind’s eye. “Stupid girl! What were you thinking?” She was so busy scolding herself that she was caught completely off-guard when the door flew open. Before she could react, a large hand gripped her by the throat, slamming her against the wall with such intensity that it stole her breath away. A second hand seized hers, compressing her fingers into a tight fist to prevent any spellcasting. She was powerless to resist, eyes beginning to bulge out as she struggled to draw in a breath.

“You witches are a long-winded bunch,” the hulking witcher said slowly. “Thought you’d never shut up. Now, listen closely. I need your help, and you’re going to help me, because neither of us wants to see that pretty face of yours all mangled. Nod if you understand.”

__

———————————————————

“What happened next?” Geralt asked, his quintessential calm eroding quickly.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“Look, mister, I’ve been in this business long enough to know when to duck my head and run. I told you all I know. Your mistress talked to some lady named Philippa, a bear of a man came in, slapped her around a bit, and they disappeared, the both of ‘em. Now, I will kindly ask you to leave me alone. It’s been a long, very bad day. I wish to be alone.”

Geralt exhaled sharply, clenching his teeth together in frustration, but he knew there was no further information to be mined. “Fine. Thanks for your time.”

Geralt took a deep, painful breath, staring into the impenetrable cloud cover of the midnight sky. It seemed as if all the world were afire, and no matter what he tried, his efforts only fanned the flames. He had no time for dejection, no time to lick his wounds or feel sorry for himself. His world was now streamlined into one singular direction. He had to find a way to Vergen as soon as possible.


	10. At a Crossroads

Vernon Roche’s men were still bandaging wounds and drinking freely when Geralt arrived at their ship, though it was nearing 2am. Limping unceremoniously through the crowd, he went directly to the captain’s cabin without a word, flinging the door open with such intensity that it recoiled against the wall and came halfway closed again. Roche and Ves, who were standing on opposite sides of his heavy oak desk, looked up with surprise and annoyance, as the candle flame between them swayed with the whoosh of air blown by the door.

“There you are,” Roche said, a hint of a growl in his voice. “What the hell took you so long? And… what are you doing walking on that leg?”

“We need to weigh anchor and sail for Aedirn. Immediately.”

“Excuse me?” The commander replied indignantly.

“The kingslayer kidnapped Triss, and forced her to teleport them both to Vergen in Upper Aedirn. We have no time to spare.”

“Damn. Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

Roche sighed heavily, stroking his forehead with his fingers. “We were this close! Goddamn witcher. Goddamn elves… well, be assured of this - the Blue Stripes are not so easily thwarted. We’ll get our man, but I cannot leave yet. There’s a more pressing matter to attend to.”

“More pressing than Triss in the hands of a killer?”

“More pressing for the _state_ ,” Ves clarified.

“Loredo’s a traitor. We discovered he has a deal under the table with Kaedwen,” Roche said, gesturing toward a pile of intercepted letters on the desk. “We… _extracted_ a confession from his steward, who’s been secretly acting as an agent for Henselt. For a pouch of gold, the good commandant promised to support Kaedweni troops ‘in the event of a conflict.’”

“Hence, the stockpile of weapons and the hesitance to commit his men to chasing the Scoia’tael,” Ves added. “He’s buggered himself, though. We’re onto the bastard.”

“So, send correspondence back to Vizima,” Geralt said. “Let John Natalis and the army deal with this. We can’t let Letho slip away.”

“Letho?”

“The kingslayer. He has two others working with him - both witchers. They’re ahead of him, traveling on foot. If he’s already in Vergen-"

“Henselt could be next,” Ves interrupted, narrowing her eyes in thought.

“Or he could be the one pulling the strings,” Roche added. “Very convenient for the kings of Aedirn and Temeria to fall, just as Henselt is scheming to wrench a contested trade port out of temerian control. No, we will not write for help. It would be too long in getting here, and besides that, Loredo controls the port. Any ship sailing in at this point is likely to be attacked. We’ll deal with the traitor ourselves.”

“You’d storm the fortress?” Geralt asked, more incredulous at the decision to delay sailing than the plan to attack. “Kill temerian citizens in open war?”

“No, we’ll slit the bastard’s throat quietly and root out his conspirators.”

“And just how long will that take?” The witcher asked.

“One day. Two at most. We’re hatching a plan to get Ves in, undercover.”

“Two days is too long,” Geralt said gruffly, pounding his fist on the desk. “We need to leave _right now_.”

Roche was unfazed. “Listen - I understand the sorceress is dear to you, but I have a responsibility to king and country. War may well be coming, Geralt. I will not risk losing a key strategic point for any one life - even hers. This is why you don’t plough your teammates.”

“She saved your life - or did you forget already?”

Roche got right into Geralt’s face, his cold eyes looking up at the witcher under lowered brows. “I’d leave my own goddamn mother behind for the good of Temeria. That’s what it means to be a patriot.”

“That’s what it means to be a heartless bastard,” Geralt growled, shaking his head and turning from the desk. “I’ll find my own damn way to Vergen.”

He slammed the door even harder than he’d opened it, and limped off of the ship and back toward town.

__

———————————————————

“Zoltan! Gefrin!” Geralt bellowed as he pounded on the door of the diminutive house, which, though missing a few window panes, was thankfully still standing. He could smell the dwarves - and Dandelion. He knew they were somewhere nearby.

Under normal circumstances, breaking down a door in the middle of the night would provoke the ire of the guardsmen. On a night when house fires still raged both in and out of the city walls - many cheered on by the human “protectors” of the village -the action went completely unnoticed. The dwarven craftsmanship in the heavy, solid-wood door and iron deadbolt were evident - it didn’t succumb easily. In the end, though, it was no match for a desperate, angry witcher. With a resounding crack, the slab split along the grain, and Geralt forced his way into the home. A tinge of guilt pricked his mind as he searched the house for his friends. It hadn’t occurred to him until his return trip from the ship that the riotous violence against non-humans in Flotsam would endanger them as well. After several minutes of pushing furniture around and searching for drafts of air, he finally uncovered a well-hidden wooden panel covering a narrow entrance into a cellar, hitherto unknown to him.

“Geralt?” Zoltan asked with audible relief, creeping from behind a large wooden barrel, axe in hand. “Oh, by Melitile’s teets! You scared the shite out of us.”

“How long have you been down here?” He asked, as Gefrin and Dandelion emerged from the shadows.

“As soon as we heard the shoutin’ we took cover,” Gefrin said, his body language expressing a hint of shame. “I’m no coward - hear me - but I’m also no fool. Best to wait it out until those bastards get it outta their system.”

“Dandelion told us some dreadful tales,” Zoltan said gravely. “Is it really that bad?”

“Worse,” Geralt confirmed. “You won’t be safe here - not for some time. You all need to leave the village. Roche is planning to assassinate Loredo in a day or two. It’s only going to get uglier out there for a while.”

“Leave?” Gefrin said, incredulous. “I cannae _leave_ , witcher! This forge, this home has been in ma’ family for nigh on two hundred years!”

“You don't have a choice,” he replied firmly. “Forges can be rebuilt, fortunes remade, but if you step foot outside this home, I’m telling you right now, you won’t last five minutes. It’s not just the guards - Loredo’s stirred up the whole population. They’re killing, raping and stealing from _each other_ \- it’ll be even worse for you. Trust me on this. Take only what’s most irreplaceable and leave tonight. I’ll help smuggle you out.”

“Oh, for shite’s sake!” He moaned, tugging at his beard in anguish. “If grandad could see me now…”

“We’ll go with ye,” Zoltan said to Geralt, consoling his cousin with a slap on the shoulder. “Better to live to fight another day.”

“Good,” the witcher replied, “that goes for you, too, Dandelion. temerian loyalists are likely to be hung right now. I can get you three beyond the walls, but you’ll be on your own after that.”

“Wait, wait - _what_?! On my own? Out there? Why?” Dandelion asked.

“I need to get to Vergen, as soon as possible,” he explained. “Foltest’s assassin kidnapped Triss. He forced her to teleport them both to Vergen. I’ve got to get there as soon as possible. There’s no telling what he’ll do with her once she’s served her purpose.”

“Roche has a ship,” Dandelion replied, confused. “He’s not going after them?”

“He’s too busy plotting Loredo's assassination.” Geralt answered with unvarnished annoyance.

“Not good, not good…” Zoltan muttered, stroking his mustache. “I traveled here from Vergen myself. The path is a royal pain in the arse - bogs, hills, creeks everywhere, and they’ll likely be runnin’ o’er their banks this time of year. Even with a good steed, it would take four, maybe five days. And Loredo’s got the port locked down like a clam, even after you killed the beast. Although… come to think of it, there may be a way to get what you’re after… if we’re not too late.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, that elf who uh, _escorted_ me back to Lobinden -he and I got to chatting along the way… the squirrels are planning to hijack the prison barge and float it all the way to Vergen to meet up with Saskia and the freedom fighters. Unless, of course, that ambush by the Blue Stripes blew the plans to shite.”

Geralt thought about it for a long moment. “If they’ve got enough elves left, now would be the perfect time to do it. Most of Loredo’s men are drunk off their asses. It’s worth a shot.”

“Wait wait _wait_ -“ Dandelion interrupted. “You’re not actually proposing what I _think_ you’re proposing… you’re gonna help the Scoia’tael fight temerians?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Geralt said coldly.

“Uh… count me out! The Scoia’tael would have my neck if they learned I’m a spy, and the temerians would have my neck if they learned I helped you.”

“Fine,” Geralt said with a huff. “Once we clear the city walls, head to Roche’s ship. You’ll be safe enough there.”

“Ugh! This would be perfect ballad material… if I actually _survive_ the night.”

“Quit whining, you damned lily fool!” Zoltan grunted. “Time to grow some bollocks. Geralt will get you past the real danger. I’m sure you can handle a wee stroll through the forest. C’mon, no time to waste, lads. Let’s get out while we still can.”

The four of them spent a few minutes hiding any valuables they could move in Gefrin’s cellar, then crept out the back window. The narrow alley between the houses and the sixteen-foot-high city wall was the preferred location for the villagers to empty chamber pots, and as such, there was minimal foot traffic there. They traipsed through the odorous muck, following the wall and sneaking across gaps between houses, until they reached the merchant’s gate near the docks. As with the Lobinden gate, a solitary pikeman watched the passage, leaning lazily against the wall. Geralt placed the already-drowsy guard in a stupor with Axii, walked him a few paces away, and convinced him he needed to urinate there for “a good long while.” By the time he regained his senses, the men and dwarves were well out of view, safe in the dark embrace of the forest.

After parting ways with Dandelion, the remaining trio set out for the usual Scoia’tael meeting place, but were accosted before they’d gone a quarter of the way there.

“What business have you with these dwarves, _dh’oine_?” A stern voice rang out suddenly, startling the dwarves, who had heard neither the patter of approaching steps, nor the groan of a bowstring drawn taut and vibrating with impatience.

Geralt slowly lowered the hood of his cloak, revealing his long, white hair and distinctive, cat-like eyes. “I am no dh’oine. We come as allies.”

“Forgive me, Gwynbleidd,” the elf said in an entirely different tone, stepping out of the shadows. “I did not recognize you. You’ve come at a bad time - our arrowheads yearn for blood. It’s unsafe for you to be here.”

“More dangerous than Flotsam?” Geralt asked, one eyebrow raised. “These two narrowly escaped with their lives. Many others were not so lucky.”

“Yes, we’re well aware. Sadly, there’s little we can do for our brethren within the city walls. They’ve made their beds next to the dh’oine, and they’ve suffered the consequences.”

“Are you to abandon them, then?” Zoltan asked angrily. “Their women to be raped in the streets, their children to have their heads split like melons for sport?”

“Flotsam is no longer our fight,” the fair-haired elf said with a shrug. “Our archers are needed elsewhere.”

“By the virgin of Aedirn, by chance?” Zoltan asked.

The elf narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Perhaps.”

“Cut the formalities,” Geralt said impatiently. “We know about the plan to hijack the barge. If you’re headed to Vergen, we can help, just take us to Iorveth.”

The elf sized up Geralt’s wounded leg, which was bandaged poorly and looked worse than it felt. “I mean no offense, Gwynbleidd, but you’ll only slow us down.”

Geralt grabbed the elf by the collar suddenly, lifting him to the tips of his toes as his hands fumbled in vain for his weapon. “They still trust me, you fool! I can get you aboard without bloodshed.” He released the elf, having made his point clear. “Take us to Iorveth. Quickly.”

__

———————————————————

“You again?” The elven commander scoffed, his voice worn and haggard. “Have you not spat into the face of death enough for one day?”

“Good to see you made it out in one piece,” the witcher replied.

“Is it? I was beginning to wonder how Vernon Roche was able to ambush my men in our own forest…” He drew a curved, bronze dagger and held it so tightly against the witcher’s throat that the honed edge scraped against his stubble. “Fourteen of my men died in that maneuver. _Fourteen_! Why should I hesitate to slit your throat right this moment?”

“Because you need my help,” Geralt said hoarsely, staring directly into Iorveth’s eyes, “and because if you really thought I betrayed you, you would’ve killed me on sight.”

The elf smiled wryly, retracting his blade and patting Geralt a bit too firmly on the cheek. “I like this one. ‘Balls the size of boulders,’ as our dwarven brethren would say. Tell me, vatt’ghern, why do I need your help?”

“Because you and I want the same thing - to be on that prison barge headed to Vergen. As soon as possible.”

“I see someone in my camp has a loosened tongue,” he said with annoyance, loud enough for the soldiers around him to hear. “When I find out who, I may just cut it out so there won’t be any more problems. Now, you know _my_ secret, witcher, so tell me yours. Why are you in such a hurry to be in Vergen?”

“Letho is there. He kidnapped the sorceress, Triss Merigold, and forced her to teleport them there.”

“What?” The commander asked, shifting from cavalier nonchalance to sober intensity in a flash. “And you’re certain of this?”  
“For gods’ sake, yes! I’m certain.”

Iorveth cursed in his native tongue. “What does he seek there? Will he assassinate Henselt… or Saskia?”

“Well, he didn’t go there to make friends. We have to get there. Now.”

“Agreed, vatt’ghern. Agreed. The bedlam in Flotsam has altered our timeline - we’re going to steal the barge tonight. I assume that’s why you’ve come? To help us?”

“To make it possible,” Geralt replied confidently. “I’ve been in the village, I’ve seen the docks. I know where they’re vulnerable.”

Iorveth was unimpressed. “I have spies, Geralt. You’re standing next to one.”

“But do they have Loredo’s jurisdiction to rearrange the defenses? Do they have the blind trust of some dull-witted guards?”

Iorveth stroked his hairless chin. “…and you can give me this? I’ve seen the company you keep. I do have my doubts…”

Geralt leaned in, jaw strong, eyes fierce. “You’re going to accept my help, because it’s the best damn chance you have to get what you want, and because you just might spare the rest of your men in the process.”

“…fine. We shall work together. For now. Come, sit! Let’s… _adjust_ the plan.”

__

———————————————————

Dawn was less than an hour away when Geralt approached Flotsam’s dockside gate. His limp was pronounced, drawing attention to the ugly wound on his leg, which was vibrant red with fresh blood.

“Oi! Who goes there?” The guard - a young man with a whiskery patch of chin hair - shouted.

“The witcher. The kayran-slayer.” Geralt approached quickly, looking left and right before speaking to make sure no one overheard him. “Listen carefully. The squirrels are planning an attack at the docks, but-“ he grabbed the guard by the shoulder to keep him from immediately running for reinforcements, “Iorveth himself is with them. If we play this carefully, we can trap him. _Alive_. How’d you like to see the Commandant’s face when you and I bring him in?”

The man nodded excitedly.

“There are three merchant ships moored to the dock. As we speak, guerrillas are approaching by water to sneak onboard and steal them.”

“Merchant ships? Why’d they want those?”

“To terrorize the port, of course! What else would elves do with stolen ships? Don’t interrupt. How many men do you have at the dock?”

“Um… not many, master witcher. There was an uprising with the dwarves near the square, we dispatched a few men not an hour ago. I’d have to-“

“How many, damnit?!”

“Uh-four. Two on the barge, one guarding the um… uh the um path to the barge and, uh… well, me.”

“It’ll have to do. Grab the one on the pier and one of the guards on the barge. We’ll lie in wait on the merchant ships, kill the other elves and bind Iorveth with rope.”

“Okay… you, uh… sure we shouldn’t get hel-“

“There’s no _time_ for help. They’re coming now! I intercepted two on the way. Barely escaped with my life. We may already be too late.”

“Right, right. Let’s go then, master witcher!”

The guard dutifully did as he was told, bringing two other men with him and following Geralt to the vessels on the far side of the pier. As soon as they were in place, a fiery arrow soared across from the far shore of the river, landing with a thud near a stack of barrels at the end of one of the boardwalks. The lone guard remaining atop the prison barge ran to the side for a better look, oblivious to the grappling hooks which reached the ship’s railing from the water below. Silently and swiftly, four elven commandos climbed aboard, slit the guard’s throat and tossed his body into the moss-capped water below.

“Look! There,” Geralt shouted, summoning the three other guards to himself. Once they were near (and standing close enough together), he cast Aard, sending them flying off the pier and into the water. He limped away as quickly as possible, narrowly escaping before a shower of flaming arrows rained down from across the river, igniting nearly every ship in the port - except, of course, for the prison barge. Ignoring the intense, searing pain with every step, the witcher rushed across the creaking, uneven planks, reaching the end of the pier just as the large vessel began to pull away under unfurled sails. He leapt from the end of the planks, plunging into the water, and swam after it vigorously. A moment later, a rope ladder unrolled , splashing against the water within an arm’s reach. He took hold and climbed, and was greeted by firm elven hands at the top, pulling the soaked and wounded witcher aboard.

“I told you no one had to die,” Geralt growled at Iorveth, who had just come aboard himself.

“Come now, vatt’ghern,” he said smugly. “You can’t expect my men to become pacifists. We’re soldiers, after all. Besides…” he paused in thought for a moment before continuing grimly, “much elven blood has been spilled tonight. Far too much. The dh’oine had it coming. One slit throat is an incredible mercy.”

Alarm bells began ringing wildly in the village as a crowd of sleepy-eyed townspeople and guardsmen rushed onto the scene to try and extinguish the flames on the merchant ships. Amidst the chaotic scene, few even noticed the stolen barge as it slowly lumbered toward the open flow of the river. A handful of guards started to swim after it, but a volley of arrows into the water nearby discouraged them quickly. Geralt was about to comment on how it was a devilishly clever plan with a clean getaway, but as the words were forming on his tongue, a pudgy, shaven-head man came lumbering onto the pier, waving a torch in his hand and shouting something that got the attention of everyone on board.

“Iorveth! I’ve got your precious _Mottle_ , you pointy-eared bastard!” Behind him trailed a large man dragging a blond she-elf by the hair. Though her hands and feet were bound, she flopped like a fish out of water, shrieking in terror. Several elven tongues aboard the prison barge cursed bitterly. “Bring back my goddamn ship, or I’ll toss the whore aboard one of these, along with her friends!” As he spoke, three other elves were dragged out in similar fashion.

Iorveth was visibly enraged, gripping the railing of the deck so hard his forearms began to quiver. The soldier at the helm asked if he wanted them to turn around. He waved him off without a word, seething in silence as Mottle and the others screamed.

“There’s a special place in hell for heartless cunts like you, Commandant!” Iorveth finally shouted back, hesitating for a moment before continuing, “…but as for our sisters… they are prepared to go where the apple trees bloom.”

“You’d watch your own cousin burn? For a pack of rapists and thieves?” Loredo bellowed, slurring his words. Clearly he was drunk. “Who’s the cunt now?”

“Do what you must,” Iorveth yelled, turning his back and cringing.

“Fine!” Loredo growled, turning to his men. “Burn the wenches.”

The elves screamed in chorus as Loredo’s guards tossed them aboard one of the flaming vessels as one would toss a sack of grain, then unlashed it from the dock and shoved it out into the harbor.

“And let that be a lesson to _you_!” The commandant lectured toward the crowd, which, aside from a few trying to extinguish the remaining fires, had become spectators at that point. “The elves are a heartless race, who would sooner rescue criminals than spare their own kin a fiery death. Such will be the fate of any who join their cause! May they burn in the afterlife as they burn now!”

Iorveth walked to the other side of the prison barge, crouching and placing his hands over his ears to dull the unsettling sound of the screams. It didn’t work. “This is why we fight, Gwynbleidd,” he said, rising to his feet. “Do you understand now? …Geralt?” He looked around, glancing across the faces of the men aboard the ship, none of which belonged to the witcher. “Where the hell has he gone?”

———————————————————

Desperate for air, Geralt finally snuck his head above water, breathing in as far as his wounded chest would allow before plunging back under the algae-darkened surface. He was near the flaming ship, but not near enough to climb aboard. A few more strokes under the water, and he reached the hull, quickly moving across the perimeter in hopes of finding something to cling to. With heroic effort, he took hold of the rudder, scaling the stern of the ship like a spider, and slithered onto the deck as discretely as possible. Bright orange flames burned intensely all around, heating the air so severely it made it hard to breath, even for someone with healthy lungs. Near the bow, one of the bound women was already blackened and motionless, her neck bent in such a fashion that it must have been broken upon landing. The other three were huddled in one of the few pockets of the deck which hadn’t yet been consumed with fire. Geralt leapt across the flames, startling the hysterical young elves as he landed right beside them, stifling a groan of pain as his leg raged in protest.

“I’m going to get you out,” he said to one, grasping her face in both hands to try and calm her enough to listen. “Hold still.” He pulled a dagger from his belt and began cutting the thick ropes which bound their hands with a sawing motion. “Can you swim?”

They nodded, wide-eyed in stunned silence.

“The current is calm here,” he said, “but you won’t be safe coming ashore in the harbor. Swim toward the river. Conserve your energy, let the current ta-“

“We’re strong swimmers!” The blond one, Mottle, interrupted. “We know the river. We can make it.”

Geralt nodded. One by one, he unbound them and helped them overboard. By the time he reached the last one, fire had consumed much of the deck, with black smoke so dense in the air that it was nearly impossible to see. They ran directly across the flaming boards together, leaping over the side into the refreshingly cool water. Geralt’s lungs were screaming in pain, making every gasp of air above the water excruciating. He began to rethink the wisdom of his rescue effort, bobbing his head above water with increasing difficulty, until again, a firm pair of hands seized him and pulled him onto the surface of a boat. This time, it was a long, narrow rowboat, with two soldiers and three elven women aboard.

“You’re a wild one, vatt’ghern,” the soldier said, as Geralt slumped to the curved base of the now-overladen boat, gasping for air and coughing up water. “I’m glad you’re on our side.”

With a great deal of effort, the rowboat managed to rendezvous with the barge, its passengers climbing to the top deck one by one before setting sail upriver. Geralt sat on the deck with his back against the railing and leaned his head back, allowing himself to relax for a moment. The mission had been a resounding success. None of the remaining ships in the port were in any condition to give chase, and Loredo’s ballyhooed ballista missed so badly in the dark that the commandant elected not to waste further ammunition on them. The liberated barge and its passengers were free to sail toward the glow of dawn on the horizon, gliding easily through the gentle current as the waterway widened.

“You did a tremendous thing, Gwynbleidd,” Iorveth said, snatching Geralt out of the slumber which had nearly overcome him. He opened one eye to see the elven commander sitting beside him, wineskin outstretched. “I don’t know whether you’re the bravest dh’oine I know, or the craziest… but you have my gratitude. Truly.”

Geralt drank deeply from the vessel, then laid his head back against the railing.“You can repay me by getting us to Vergen in one piece.”

“Indeed,” Iorveth said, groaning slightly as he stood to his feet. “We’ve a place for you below deck where you can sleep and have that ghastly wound tended to by someone who actually knows what she’s doing. Come, rest while you can. We’ll be in Vergen before sundown.”


	11. A Prelude to Hostility

The afternoon wind howled in angry, incessant torrents, whipping every flag, scarf, tent panel and strand of hair mercilessly as the aedirnian coalition joined Henselt and his cadre of advisors atop the summit. The rocky hilltop afforded a commanding view of the Pontar Valley, with the serpentine river in the hazy distance to the north and the colossal stone guard towers of Vergen peeking above the foothills to the south. The kaedweni king stood motionless, waiting impatiently for the newcomers to take their place under the grey canvas canopy. His mouth was a thin, straight line bordered by a dense, close-cropped beard, which was just beginning to show visible flecks of white amidst its copper-tinged brown. His dark eyes squinted under bushy eyebrows as the group came to a stop, more from the relentless wind than the cloudless sunlight behind them.

“Greetings, Henselt,” Stennis began. He was a young man, early twenties at most, tall and clean shaven, with the slenderness of youth hidden underneath excessively ornate plate armor. “You seem to have made yourself at home in Aedirn… yet, I do not recall inviting you.” His clear blue eyes were alight with visible hostility.

“Ferot did so in your stead,” Henselt replied in a cavalier manner, his deep voice rich with the typical accent of the northern highlands. “I’m here at his behest. I’ve broken to truces or treaties.”

“Is that so?” Stennis snapped, turning to address the courtesans in his coalition. “Mister Brogan, please escort Count Ferot to a secluded place and remove his troublesome head.”

“You wouldn’t dare, boy!” Ferot, a middle-aged nobleman, blurted out insolently. “You’re no king! Your father-“

“My father is dead!” Stennis interjected. “And while our kinsman still mourn him in the streets, you seek to betray him, his good name and his country. A fatal mistake.”

Two aedirnian soldiers seized the nobleman, whose eyes widened in a sudden shift from confidence to panic. “King Henselt! Your Majesty… I must request your protection! This young man has lost his mind.”

The kaedweni king said nothing, declining to even look in Ferot’s direction.

“What of our agreement?” Ferot persisted, as the guards began dragging him away.

“You’ve served your purpose,” Henselt said dismissively. “I didn’t come here to speak with you. I came for the young prince.”

“In that case, you would do well to state your intentions, sir,” Stennis said. “We await an explanation to this… _encroachment_.”

Henselt flashed an upside down smile. “Direct, huh? Very well. I will show you my hand.” He gestured behind him, stepping to the side. “I have four hundred armed men encamped nearby, swords at the ready. Another six thousand battle hungry lads await on the other side of the bank, awaiting my command. Do I have your attention?” His mouth widened to a grin beneath intense eyes.

“And what is your intention with this force?” Stennis asked. Though he spoke with confidence, the prince had not yet learned the art of concealing his emotions - the worry was clearly evident on his face.

“What the hell do you _think_ , boy? I wish to reclaim what is rightfully mine by birth. The lands of the Pontar Valley.”

“These lands have been in aedirnian hands for generation upon generation. They are not yours to claim. And may I remind you, sir, that any act of aggression on your part would be in direct violation of the Peace of Cintra. As such, all the northern kingdoms would be obliged to come immediately to my aid.”

Henselt laughed heartily. “What a quaint story. Did your momma read that to you after she wiped your arse and tucked you in to bed? Do you know nothing of the world? Temeria is paralyzed in the wake of Foltest’s death, Radovid has already pledged to recognize my claim on the valley. None will help you, not even your own countrymen. Look around you, boy! It was your own noblemen who sought to undercut your authority. Give me what belongs to me, and you’ll get to keep your crown. What’s more, I shall publicly endorse your rule. None shall oppose you and live. I think you’ll find this is an unusually generous offer. You’ll not get another like it. You’ve had your moment to stiffen your spine and puff up your chest. Your honor is intact. Now, be a good lad and sign the valley over to me.”

A young woman who had been standing behind the prince could bite her lip and clinch her fists no longer.

“We will do no such thing!” She said in a commanding voice, stepping forward. “This is our land.”

“Stay out of this, Saskia,” Stennis warned under his breath. She payed him no attention.

“Well, _well_ …” Henselt said, snorting a laugh as he grinned widely. “So this is the famous dragonslayer, the ‘Virgin of Aedirn.’ You’re much prettier than they claim.”

“And deadlier,” she said, narrowing her large brown eyes in defiance.

“Oh, ho, ho! She’s got spirit,” the king replied with raised eyebrows. “I’ve updated my demands. You’ll need to throw in the lass, too. I could use woman of her… _stature_ … in Kaedwen.”

“You will watch your tongue, king, or you shall lose it,” she hissed, as Stennis fumbled aimlessly for a response. “This is aedirnian soil you tread upon, and as such, it’s under _my_ protection. You will take your pompous grin, your scheming nobles and your war-mongering hordes, and march them back across the border. You have one hour.”

Henselt was unmoved. “You’ve got bollocks, woman. I’ll give you that. But I am Henselt of Ard Carraigh. I retreat from no man - nor woman, not even a dragonslayer. If it’s war you seek, you shall have it.”

“We seek _peace_ ,” Stennis interjected, exasperated with a conversation that seemed to be running away without him. “Come, we are neighbors, are we not? Surely we mustn’t shed one another’s blood…”

“You have offended me greatly,” Henselt replied, overly dramatic. “I must now defend my honor. Though if you wish to avoid the bleeding of your subjects… how about we settle this in the old way? Clearly you’ve come dressed for battle - draw your sword, face me. One on one. To the victor goes the valley.”

“…and to the vanquished?” Stennis asked warily.

“The embrace of his forefathers in the afterlife.”

“You’re mad,” the prince replied. “The nobles, the armies would ne-“

“I’ll do it!” Saskia interrupted, stepping forward with her hand on the hilt of the broadsword which rested on her hip.

“No, you will n-“

“I accept!’ Henselt said, cutting off the protestations of the prince. “If the fair Saskia bests me in battle, I shall withdraw. However, if I slay her, you will sign the valley over to Kaedwen. Meagram - my sword!” A guard hurriedly trotted to the king and handed him a polished steel sword which cast flashes of sunlight in blinding beams across the shadows afforded by the meeting tent.

“This is not… Saskia isn’t…” Stennis stuttered, following behind the two combatants as they walked away from the tent.

“Oh, shut your mouth, boy,” Henselt remarked, removing his crown and the decorative golden belt around his deep burgundy robe. He was twice the prince’s age, and had run out of the mental energy required to keep up the visage of respect for him.

The king and the aedirnian general walked out into the stark white of the afternoon sun, settling in a mostly-flat clearing next to a large, circular monument which looked like a twelve-foot dinner plate mounted upright.

“It’s not too late to reconsider,” Henselt said, removing his robe to reveal a chainmail shirt underneath. “I’d hate to have to pierce a breast as lovely as yours. Come work for me. You’ll command an _actual_ army, eat at my table-“

“And birth bastards for you?” She fired back. “You underestimate me, majesty. To your own destruction.”

“Oh, it is you who underestimates me, _wench_. I was skewering men with this sword while you were still suckling at your mother’s tit. I will show you no mercy.”

“And you shall receive none. Have at you!”

The young woman rushed forward with a shout, thrusting her sword toward the king’s neck with surprising force. He parried the strike and turned, allowing her momentum to carry her past him, and attempted to stab her between the shoulder blades. She moved quicker than he calculated, and all he cut was a lock of her long brown hair, which hung in loose curls, despite a headband meant to restrict their movement. Saskia spun around, and before her opponent could set his feet, she lunged forward again, narrowly missing his head. This time, his parry opened her up to a fist in the face, which bloodied her nose, but did nothing to curb her intensity. The presumptive crown prince of Aedirn watched in ulcer-inducing anxiety as the combatants continued their erratic dance of death. Both had misjudged their opponent. Saskia was much quicker and more aggressive than Henselt expected, while he was far stronger and better trained than she expected.

The two faced off equally for nearly ninety seconds before Henselt’s superior training prevailed over Saskia’s enthusiasm. He adapted to her attack, parrying earlier and scoring a quick riposte with a powerful slash to her lower abdomen. She cried out in pain and dropped her sword, as crimson issued from below her ribcage at a disturbingly liberal pace. Saskia fell to her knees in shock, clutching the bloody wound with her hand, as Henselt took a step back to gloat, breathing heavily.

“Shame you let the wench fight for you,” he grunted toward Stennis, grasping his sword in two hands and walking over to her side. “I’d much rather take your head than spoil hers. But war is war, and we men do what we must.”

Just as he started to raise his arms to strike the mortal blow, Saskia grasped her sword with her left hand, thrusting it upward in a flash. Henselt reacted in time to avoid a blade in the throat, but didn’t escape unscathed. The desperate slash took the better part of one ear with it, along with a hairy chunk of scalp. The king recoiled at once, pressing his hand to his wound and growling in pain. He took a few steps back, pulling his bloody hand away to inspect it, then replacing it on what remained of his ear. Seizing the opportunity provided by the lull in the action, a priest fromthe aediernian crowd rushed onto the battlefield, waving his arms.

“My lord, my lady! You must stop this at once! This is sacred land… you must not spill blood upon it!”

Henselt looked at his opponent, who was struggling to get back to her feet, as she continued to lose blood in audible drops onto the rocky ground. He had no intention of conceding, especially after having suffered bodily harm.

“Out of my way, priest,” he said, backhanding the elderly man in the face. Had the priest acquiesced, or even simply fallen to the ground from the blow, many fates would have been altered, many lives spared, and many mysteries unsolved. He did neither of those things, however, persisting in his zeal for an armistice. He recovered his senses from the king’s blow and grasped Henselt’s shoulder, pleading with him again to cease fighting. The wounded man had heard enough. He whirled around, seized the man by the collar, and threw him back, tumbling to the ground in front of the disc-shaped monument. In a rage, the king stomped toward the priest as he clambered back to his feet, grabbed the old man’s head between his hands, and began to smash it against the stone monument. Shrieks emanated from the crowd of spectators as his repeated strikes finally broke the man’s skull, caving in the back of his head with a sickening crunch, which left a sizable stain on the stone surface. Before the now-lifeless body of the priest could slump to the ground, a low-pitched, brassy sound blared at ear-piercing intensity, accompanied by a blueish light that seemed to shine directly from the disc. Even with one injured ear, the growing sound became so intense that it brought the king to his knees along with most of the bystanders, who were being enveloped by a dense, shimmering fog slowly billowing over the hilltop.

———————————————————

“C’mon! Keep up, ya long-legged sloths,” Zoltan shouted over his shoulder, a dozen paces ahead of the nearest elf in the procession. He’d been climbing the increasingly rocky slopes toward Vergen with youthful enthusiasm, whistling a jovial tune as he went. The short legs and low center of gravity which slowed his steps in the dense forest gave him an advantage in a more traditionally dwarven terrain, but beyond that, he was more excited than anyone to return to the city. Vergen was a major trading hub for the dwarves and the largest dwarven establishment beyond the borders of Mahakam. Many of Zoltan’s friends had settled there, and he was anxious to catch up with them and hear how the war effort was progressing.

At the other end of the procession, Geralt could not have been less interested in climbing foothills from the riverbank to the mountain city. His leg, though expertly treated by an elven healer while onboard the prison barge, still ached horribly with every step, and had to be painstakingly re-bandaged twice daily to prevent infection. He tried humming quietly to himself to drown out Zoltan’s whistling, but to no avail. Instead, he grimaced, growled and huffed. A terrible sense of foreboding hung over his head like a personal raincloud. Letho had been one step ahead of him ever since the battle at La Valette castle, and now that he was hobbled and Triss’s life was in jeopardy, playing catchup could prove fatal for them both.

The journey stretched on for nearly two grueling hours, but at last they arrived beneath the majestic columns of the Mahakam gate, one of only two entrances into Vergen. It had been over fifty years since Geralt had last seen the engineering marvel, and it was as impressive as ever. In contrast to elven architecture, which favored marble structures with flourishes, flowing curves and nature motifs, dwarven architecture valued scale and durability. The forged-steel doors of the gate stood sixteen feet tall, six feet wide each, and were nine inches thick. Hardened steel hinges affixed them to a grandiose frame which was chiseled directly into the granite mountainside. Crossed battle axes decorated the octagonal caps of the twin pillars of the frame, towering nearly forty feet above the gravelly soil at the bottom of the gorge. Geralt had little time to take in the sights; before he’d even come to a stop, the clanking of huge metal gears began to echo down the stone corridor, sending a blinding beam of daylight cascading over the arriving party as the doors slowly opened.

“Zoltan Chivay!” A gruff voice belted above the noise. A bald, black-bearded dwarf appeared in the cleft between the doors, walking toward the visitors with arms open wide.

“Yarpen! It’s good to see ye, y’old prick!” Zoltan replied, walking forward to meet him. The dwarves embraced and slapped each other robustly on the back.

“I trust you’re in good health…”

“Aye, I’m well,” Zoltan replied, “but it’s been a hell of a last few days. It’s good to see a familiar face.”

“I see you brought, er… friends,” the bald dwarf, Yarpen, said, eyeing Iorveth with an uncomfortably forced smile.

“Don’t be too quick to judge them,” Zoltan said, “I sailed here on Iorveth’s boat. He’s come with a large band of archers - as keen-eyed as hawks and angry as hornets. Those kaedweni pussies won’t ploughin’ know what hit’em.”

“Well, uh… war time rules and all… aye, we can let bygones be bygones. It’s all slag in the cauldron, far as I’m concerned. Especially since - wait! Do my eyes fool me? Geralt of Rivia? I’ve seen a ghost! Well, this _is_ a reunion!” He turned to shout over his shoulder to a company of dwarves which had gradually coalesced behind him. “Take heart, lads! Zoltan’s brought the kingslayer! Tore ol’ Foltest’s throat out with his bare hands, he did! C’mere, Geralt! Give a hug to your old pal!”

Geralt sighed deeply, sinking his head to his hand. “Let me guess - we knew each other well?”

Yarpen was completely perplexed. Zoltan offered an explanation. “Geralt’s… head’s not exactly on straight. He’s had a wee bit of memory loss…”

“I see, I see…” Yarpen said, nodding seriously with brows scrunched together. A long, awkward silence settled in before he spoke up again. “Well, we shall just have to forge some new memories, huh? Come, you must be tired after your trip. Let’s tap a keg and have a seat together. There we can catch up properly.”

“As much as I appreciate your invitation,” Iorveth replied, the impatience and annoyance in his tone utterly unvarnished, “I must decline. I need to see Saskia as soon as possible. Can you take me to her?”

“I’m afraid I cannot,” Yarpen replied with a shrug. “She’s gone to some kind of ‘summit,’ or something, with Prince Penis—er… I mean, _Stennis_ , to parlay with that arse-licker Henselt. ’Tis a shame - you just missed her. Left here not long before you arrived. Fear not - she’ll be back before you know it. In the meantime… you’re welcome to set up camp - outside the city. There’s a clearing a wee bit down the path…”

“Yes, we passed it coming in. Very well, but I wish to know the moment she returns."

“Of course, of course. Come, Geralt, Zoltan. Drinks are on me.”

Yarpen led his friends through the bustling town center toward the tavern - which itself was carved out of the granite mountainside, along with most of the other sizable or notable buildings in Vergen. It was a town built on many elevations, with a maze-like network of narrow alleys, steep staircases and small plazas connecting them all. Yarpen gave them the grand tour, pointing out military fortifications and weapon stockpiles along the way. Whichever way the parlay with Henselt went, the dwarves were prepared for war.

As he was listening to an unnecessarily detailed account of modifications made to the forge, a strange event stole Geralt’s attention. His medallion started vibrating lightly, then leapt from his chest, accompanied by a loud, deep sound, like the blaring of a horn.

“What the devil?” Yarpen muttered surveying the sky to see an unnatural blue glow flickering in the distance. He led Geralt and Zoltan to the top of one of the gate towers for a better look. There was a haze slowly thickening on the hilltops toward the north, while the sound continued oscillating between ‘loud’ and ‘very loud.’

“It’s magical, whatever it is,” Geralt confirmed. “Is there anything significant over there? Weapons? Mages?”

Yarpen looked at the horizon for a moment, then went snow-white, his eyes widening in realization. “Plough me sideways,” he said slowly. “That’s right near the summit - where Saskia’s speaking with Henselt. You don’t think… his mages… you don’t think-“

“It’s not good,” Geralt said gravely. Before he could continue, Iorveth came running toward the gate.

“What the hell is that?” He shouted, more as an accusation than a question. “Where is Saskia now?”

“We’re comin’ down,” Zoltan yelled back. “Hold on.”

Iorveth was pacing nervously at the bottom of the tower. “Tell me that’s not this ‘summit’ that’s enveloped in magical energy.”

“It would… appear to be so,” Yarpen said uncomfortably.

Iorveth muttered curses under his breath. “We cannot afford to lose her. We must aid her at once! Have you any horses?”

“Aye, we’ve got some workhorses. They’re not fleet of foot, but-“

“Fetch some at once. Two of them.”

Yarpen waved down a bystander, barking out orders. “Oi! Loose the horses from the mill at once, and bring them here. Oh - and summon the sorceress.”

———————————————————

Geralt’s horse neighed and shrieked as they came to the edge of the expanding wall of fog, rearing its head and bucking frantically. He cast Axii on the beast to calm it, but still, it refused to take one step into the unnatural fog, which arced with bright blue strands flashing across it like lightning. Iorveth had already forsaken his mount and was several paces into the field, nearly out of sight. Geralt followed suit, creeping warily into the fog with his silver sword drawn. The interior of the magical fog felt much like waking across a cloud-shrouded mountainside, only the cool, damp hazy air tingled with a strange energy, drawing the hair on the witcher’s arms and legs away from his skin. In addition to the tooth-rattling droning of the brassy sound, the fog added an etherial whisper, which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Geralt couldn’t quite make out the words, but he was certain it was a dialect of the elder speech. Exhaling slowly through his nostrils and tightening his grip, he stepped forward. The two rescuers could see nothing beyond twenty feet or so in front of them, but they could hear the screams and wails of both men and dwarves, along with the clanging of swords and shields striking each other.

“Forward, forward!” Iorveth shouted, dashing fearlessly through the fog. Geralt followed, and they soon reached the source of the noise. A handful of soldiers were besieged by a horde of men in rusty plate armor, circling the besieged defenders like a pack of wolves stalking a wounded doe. Geralt was about to sheathe his silver sword and draw his steel weapon, when one of the attackers turned in his direction. Glowing white orbs shone where eyes should have been, mildly illuminating the grotesque, decaying face, more bone than skin. The creature turned clumsily, releasing a throaty, wispy hiss and pointing its sword toward the newcomers.

“They’re wraiths!” Geralt shouted. “Keep my back clear. I’ll cut them down.”

The elf nodded, and they moved forward cautiously. The first wraith to reach them raised its decayed arm to strike, but the witcher swiped his silver blade with lightning speed, cleaving the limb cleanly off. The remaining stub issued a dense, white substance somewhere between a liquid and a gas, with an unnatural sound like a gurgling exhale. In the span of a heartbeat, the silver blade pivoted, slicing the head completely off, then plunged through the decaying breastplate of a second. Aware of, but unconcerned with the newcomers, the bulk of the horde continued pressing in on the survivors in the center of the pack as Geralt and Iorveth earnestly cut their way through the blockade.

“Saskia!” Iorveth cried out, vulnerability in his voice for the first time since Geralt had met him. He slid to the ground next to the young warrior, who still clutched her midsection. Geralt placed his back to the handful of survivors, striking down one wraith after another. A thrust through the eye socket, a downward stroke across the neck and collarbone. A roll to evade a counterattack, then a swipe clean though two femurs. The resurrected corpses were slow and lumbering, but their seemingly endless number still presented a mortal danger.

“She’s wounded!” Iorveth shouted. “We must get her away to safety. She cannot die!”  
Geralt rolled backward, wincing as the motion pressured his still-sensitive ribs, and took his eyes off the crowd for a moment to survey the situation. The face of the young woman known as the dragonslayer was pale white. He’d seen it before. She was moments from fainting - or perhaps perishing -from blood loss. Around her were two heavily-armored dwarves and a young, slight man in ostentatiously stylized plate armor.

“Are you Stennis?” He said to the panic-eyed youth, who nodded in response. “Alright, listen up! These are _magical_ soldiers. Steel and iron won’t be much good to you. I’m gonna cut a path through. Iorveth will carry Saskia. The rest of you- keep them off of me. Understood?”

“Let’s ploughin’ go!” One of the dwarves shouted. Iorveth nodded, taking up Saskia in his arms. Geralt cast Aard, forming a break in the still-growing crowd around them, and the party moved into it, clustered tightly together. He swung his sword in wide arcs and quick thrusts, each strike done with calculated precision. One head rolled off, then an arm bearing a broken wooden shield, then an entire body crumpled, bisected around the naval. Behind him, the dwarves swung axes furiously, parrying countless attacks from the rotting, skeletal wraiths, but dealing little damage. With each yard advanced, the surrounding mob pressed in closer, to the point where Aard was necessary just to make room to swing a sword. One of the rear guard dwarves took a rusty saber to the gut and dropped his axe. Within seconds, he was cut, stabbed and slashed to pieces. The other dwarf soon took a blow to the head, cleaving his helmet and destroying one eye. Though he continued to fight on, blood drained profusely from the wound, which seemed to arouse more aggression from the wraiths.

“Iorveth! Get ready to run!” Geralt shouted, realizing the plan to save the others was a lost cause.

“Wait, Gwynbleidd,” the elf replied, grunting as he pressed against Geralt’s back. “Help is here.”

The Witcher looked up as he was speaking, and saw a huge owl swooping overhead. The creature turned its eyes toward the struggling survivors, then locked its wings and dove right at them. Just before it reached them, blinding flashes of orange light stretched out in every direction, vaporizing the wraiths in the immediate vicinity and creating a protective barrier of sorts, a dozen feet across.

 _Geralt of Rivia_? A female voice rang in the witcher’s mind, ostensibly arriving telepathically from the owl, which circled just overhead. _What on_ earth _are you doing here?_

“At the moment, trying not to get killed,” he shouted toward the owl.

 _Indeed_ , the voice replied. _I can only keep this barrier up for so long. We must make haste. Follow me._

The owl continued to circle, but slowly moved forward, taking the orange electrical sphere of protection with her. The party followed closely, careful to remain near the center of the sphere, which expanded and contracted unpredictably. Though the wraiths continued to throw themselves at the barrier, most were thwarted upon crossing it, as a bolt of electricity shot out from the owl. At times, though, too many would approach at once, necessitating the witcher’s quick response with his silver blade. Faster and faster the owl advanced, straining those on foot to their breaking point, until something new entered the sphere. It was a hulking mass of plate armor pieces, shields and spear shafts, bearing a generally humanoid shape, but reaching nearly ten feet high. At the end of each arm, a rusted gauntlet held a greatsword. Bolt after bolt from the owl struck the metal beast with no discernible effect as it methodically advanced toward the survivors. Geralt sprang into action, sliding feet first between the legs of the giant and rising up to strike it in the back. The blow glanced harmlessly off the crumpled breastplate, as the beast whirled around, swinging both swords in rapid succession. Geralt dodged adeptly, hearing the whoosh of the second blade as it passed mere inches from his head. He countered in typical fashion, but this blow, too, seemed to deal little damage. The creature swung both blades downward violently, and though the witcher was able to block the blow, the unbelievable force knocked him off his feet. Acting quickly, he cast Quen just in time to deflect a downward thrust aimed at his sternum, and rolled to the side, rising to his feet and dashing behind the metal mass. His keen eyes spotted a ray of bright white in the joints between the creature’s thigh and shin, and with the speed of an arrow strike, he stabbed the tip of his blade into one of them. A sudden burst of energy knocked Geralt off his feet again, as a flood of white material escaped through the wound. The beast tried to step forward, moving its thigh without the now-detached shin and foot, and tumbled to the ground with a cacophonous rattle.

 _Hurry, Geralt_ , the female voice said, returning to his mind. _This is becoming too much, even for me._

Geralt rushed back to the rest of the group, which was occupied fending off a wraith that had penetrated the barrier. He struck the reanimated corpse down, helped Stennis back to his feet, and rushed them forward. They advanced at a near-run, desperate to reach the edge of the fog before the owl’s protection evaporated. Wraiths in front of the barrier had no time to be shocked - it was up to Geralt to stagger them with Aard or beat them off with his sword. At last, they reached the edge of the fog, which faded quickly, and after crossing one more hill for good measure, came to a stop. Iorveth laid Saskia down gently, Stennis stood hands on his hips, breathing heavily, and the wounded dwarf collapsed to the ground, laying flat on his back. With a flash and a high-pitched breathy sound, the owl changed form, taking the shape of a dark-haired woman with two long braids reaching past her exposed collarbones.

“Move aside. Quickly!” She commanded, her striped satin gown swishing as she stepped toward the injured dragonslayer. A bright orb of light appeared in the sorceress’s hand, which she waved slowly across the wound, gradually sealing the gash as she muttered incantations. Iorveth, Stennis and Geralt looked on in silence until the sorceress rose to her feet, releasing the orb.

“Her heart is strong. She’ll survive,” she said, sighing deeply and wiping her brow. “However, she needs water and rest. We must return to Vergen immediately. I’ve enough energy to take the two of us there. The rest of you can manage on foot, I trust? I should like a full explanation of what the hell happened when you arrive.”

“Wait - what about the dwarf?” Iorveth asked, as the sorceress waved her arms in a wide arc, opening a portal.

“He’s dead - or near it,” she said bluntly. “There’s nothing to be done for him.” With a strenuous groan, she lift Saskia and stepped into the portal, which closed with a rippling whoosh behind them.

“I can’t stand that wretched hag,” Stennis said, hands still on his hips as he struggled to catch his breath. “Damn her. It’s _three miles_ back to Vergen.”

“Then we’d best get moving, _majesty_ ,” Iorveth said with a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “I’ll carry the dwarf. He fought with valor - he deserves a proper burial.”

“Who is she?” Geralt asked, as Iorveth lifted the now-limp dwarf’s body over his shoulder. “The sorceress…”

Stennis spit disdainfully. “That pretentious thorn in my ass is the venerable Phillipa Eilhart.”


	12. War Council

Why are you here, witcher?” The sorceress asked sternly, arms folded and tapping her fingers impatiently. “And I caution you - do not seek to mislead me. I’ve been a diplomat since before even _you_ were born, and let’s not fool ourselves - duplicity never was a strength of yours.”

Geralt had barely passed through the city gate when he was accosted, and after spending most of the day walking on an increasingly sore leg, he lacked the patience to respond courteously.

“Let me guess,” he said with a long exhale through his nose, “we know each other. Or… _knew_.”

“Where’s Saskia? Is she alright?” Iorveth interrupted, leaving his horse and the dwarven body upon it in the care of one of the guards. Fortune had led them across the path of the frightened animal on their return trip, which sped up their journey immensely.

“She’ll be fine,” Philippa said dismissively in her low-pitched voice, which had just a hint of scratchiness to it, like the grit of a bow-stroke on a violin string. “She merely passed out from blood loss. Give her the night to rest, and she’ll be right as rain. Now, I asked the witcher a question, and I will have a reply.”

“I helped a friend escape a pogrom in Flotsam. Had to leave town with him, so, here I am.” He didn’t trust her. The feeling was mutual.

The sorceress pursed her dark-tinted lips, scowling for a moment as she cocked her head slightly. Geralt felt the slightest tingle of movement from his medallion, and mentally kicked himself. She was clearly an elite magician - she could read his mind, and was most likely in the process of doing it.

Philippa rolled her eyes with a huff. “You always were a middling liar, Geralt. Let me be very direct with you. I am here to ensure Saskia’s safety and success. It is a task I take very seriously, and as you might imagine, the unexpected arrival of a kingslayer with arrest warrants in _three kingdoms_ gives me ample reason for concern. You should know, if you so much as look at her will ill intent, the soldiers of this town will cut you to ribbons without hesitation.”

“Thanks for the visual,” he replied, inhaling deeply. “Are we done here?”

“Hardly. Do you really not recognize me? Why? Have you been enchanted? Injured?”

“How the hell would I know?” He answered, shrugging. “ _I lost my memory_.”

“Spare me your wit. It’s much less charming than you believe it to be.”

She brought one hand up to her chin, tapping her mouth with her index finger in contemplation. The medallion twinged again. “You really don’t remember me at all. _Fascinating_. Alright, I’ll believe you on that matter. Did you kill Foltest?"  
“No.”

She scoffed, placing a hand on her hip demonstratively. “Would you care to expound upon that answer?”

“No.”

“Very mature.”

“Get out of my way.”

She scowled at him. “One thing you should know about me - I always get the information I want, one way or another. I’m watching you. Keep your distance from Saskia.”

“Gladly.”

Geralt walked past Philippa, and was promptly joined by a very impressed Zoltan Chivay.

“Ooooooh-ho- _ho_! Did’ya see the look on that witch’s face? You were a hairs’ breadth from bein’ reduced to a pile of smolderin’ ash!”

“She’s not accustomed to being told ‘no,’” another, heretofore un-introduced dwarf added, walking along side the friends.

“Uh-Geralt, allow me to introduce Cecil Burdon, Alderman of Vergen,” Zoltan said.

“Nice to meet you,” Geralt replied cordially.

“While you were away savin’ the prince’s royal arse, I did some askin,’” his friend said. “No one’s seen hide nor hair of Triss. ‘Least, not here.”

“Damn. Mind if I ask around?"

“Not at all,” Cecil replied, stroking his dense, mahogany beard. “I’m told ‘twas you and that squirrel that rescued our Lady from that cock-sucker Henselt…”

“Rescued her, sure. But I doubt those wraiths were Henselt’s doing.”

“Meh. Either way, you’ve brought our beacon of hope back intact. Vergen is indebted to ye. Truly. Zoltan mentioned ye might need lodging for a day or two. I’ve cleared a room at the tavern - you’ll not be troubled by ‘ _her sorceress-ship_ ’ there. Stay as long as you’d like, interview the whole town, and if ye need my help in any way, all you’ve to do is ask.”

“That’s… very generous of you,” Geralt replied. “Actually, I’m dying to get off of this leg for a while.”

“Then we shall head there straightaway,” Zoltan said.

After resting up a bit and stuffing down a brief snack, Geralt and Zoltan made the rounds across Vergen, asking every human, dwarf and elf they came across for any news of Triss’s whereabouts. They learned nothing. Defeated and sore to the point of limping, the witcher retreated to his room at the tavern for a late dinner and sleep. The room was modest in size but well-appointed, with a dense fur rug to comfort bare feet and a small fireplace to warm the cube-shaped stone space. Geralt ordered a plate of roasted pork and potatoes, waded through the waist-high crowd of rowdy patrons, and closed himself in for a quiet meal. He was about half-finished when a timid knock at the door disrupted his solitude. Sighing deeply and muttering curses, he wiped his mouth and limped to the door to open it.

“Master Geralt…sir,” the quiet visitor said, barely audible above the din of the raucous crowd down the hall. It was Mottle, the fair-haired elf Geralt rescued from Loredo. “They… said I could find you here. May I… come in?”

Her meekness was disarming. “Of course.” He stepped aside, opening the door fully, and she stepped in. “What can I do for you?” He asked, once the door was shut behind her.

“I came here to thank you,” she said, avoiding eye contact. “You… saved my life. And the others, of course, but… I am grateful to you.” She untied the collar of her woven cloak, shrugging it off gracefully. The fabric fell to the ground in a pile around her, leaving only a thin linen gown which sat low on her shoulders and reached to mid-thigh. Though the fabric was mostly opaque, Mottle’s slender figure was easily discernible in the glow of the fireplace. The Witcher swallowed hard.

“Okay… you’re welcome…” he replied, eyes affixed to his visitor. Most humans found elven women, while feminine and objectively attractive, to be somewhat off-putting. Geralt was no exception to this generality. However, among elves, Iorveth’s cousin was on the more human-featured side, and had a certain hard-to-define familiar attractiveness. “I’m not sure-“

“I’m quite well-versed in… ways to please a man,” she said, toying nervously with the hem of her gown and looking at the floor. Her pale legs were spotted with bruises of varying size and severity, as was one wrist.

Geralt closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. For reasons unknown to him, the woman reminded him of someone very dear to him, though he couldn’t say who. Rather than bed her, he had the overwhelming urge to protect her.

“Mottle?” Her green eyes looked up for the first time and made contact with his. “As much as I appreciate the gesture, that won’t be necessary.”

He expected to see an expression of relief. Instead, it was confusion.

“Am I not desirable to you?” She asked, taking his hand and moving it toward her breast. He withdrew it promptly.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said reassuringly, the odd feeling of familiarity only heightened by her searching eyes, “but my heart belongs to another. Besides, I’m not like Loredo. I can tell he… mistreated you.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she nodded.

“…have you eaten?” He asked after a long pause.

She sniffed and brushed a tear away from her cheek. “Not recently.”

“I, uh… ordered more than I could finish. Why don’t you come sit by the fire and keep me company while you eat. That would be thanks enough.”

“…okay.”

Mottle wrapped the cloak back around her and sat next to the fireplace, taking Geralt up on his offer. The two of them said very little, which was a relief to them both. The gentle crackling of the fire and the repetitive scraping of a fork against a plate were oddly relaxing. Green eyes haunted Geralt’s thoughts as he basked in the relative silence. _A woman’s eyes. Young. A lover? No. Definitely not. But… love? Yes. Deep, intense. Like a mother’s love… or a child’s_. The odd, circular thoughts both comforted and unsettled him, until at last he chased them away. Mottle scraped the plate clean, then exhaled deeply and turned to Geralt.

“Thank you. You have no idea how therapeutic it is to simply feel… safe. And comfortable.” She leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Your lover is a fortunate woman.”

“We all deserve a little comfort now and then,” he replied, hoping she would leave. The comfort he sought most at the moment was solitude. She stood and returned her plate to the small table against the wall, lingering by the door before opening it.

“You know… the offer still stands. Should you change your mind…”

“Have a good night, Mottle.”

The elf shut the door behind her and Geralt leaned his head against the cushioned high-back chair. In a matter of moments, he fell into a restless sleep, plagued by etherial, emotionally-charged glimpses of a green-eyed young woman with ashen hair. Another knock on the door - much firmer, this time - mercifully pulled him from his tormented slumber. Zoltan Chivay stood at the door, speaking before the witcher had fully opened it.

“Geralt? I’ve come to summon ye,” he said, much too loudly for whatever time in the night (or morning) it was. “Saskia’s called a council of leaders to discuss yesterday’s summit, and she wishes you to be there.”

“Why me? And when?” He asked, silently cursing his sore ribs, which, owing to the amount of time he spent sleeping in a chair, ached horribly when he leaned in one direction.

“We’ll meet in the keep about an hour from now. As to why… well, you’ll have to ask ‘er that yourself.”

“Great."

———————————————————

The keep was the epitome of dwarven architecture. Interconnecting hexagonal chambers formed the outer ring, with soaring sixteen-foot ceilings carved meticulously from solid stone. At the center was an even grander hexagon, easily forty feet across, supported by three-foot-wide columns. A huge hearth roared in the corner, casting a flickering orange glow to compliment the oversized iron sconces which lit the room from each of the six columns. At the center was a grand, circular stone table, with twelve sturdy wooden chair situated equidistant around the perimeter.

The majority of the seats were already filled by the time Geralt arrived. On his left were Saskia and Philippa, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the room as they whispered into each other’s ears. Across from the entrance sat prince Stennis, dressed in thickly-woven gold-colored fabrics which looked more ostentatious than regal. On either side of him were humans - likely nobles, based on their level of dress. To Geralt’s right were a pair of modestly-dressed men, greedily eating from a basket of pastries as they conversed loudly. Zoltan led Geralt to a seat near the dwarven representatives at the council, along with Yarpen Zigrin and the town Alderman, Cecil Burdon. Philippa raised one eyebrow warily as the witcher entered and walked toward his seat, but her counterpart’s reaction was altogether different. Saskia rose from her chair, walked to meet Geralt, and promptly threw her arms around him in a hug. The sorceress’s eyes flared wide at the gesture, only calming well after the young general released her grasp.

“I am told I have _you_ to thank for saving my life,” she said with a slight head nod. “What manner of man would do such a thing for someone he doesn’t know?”

Geralt paused for a moment before replying, unsure how to interpret her unexpected forwardness. “I suppose the kind who finds himself in the right situation… with a silver sword in hand.”

She smiled broadly, chuckling as she brushed a stray brown curl away from her eye. “Indeed. I put little stock in the gods, to be honest, but it would seem fate brought you across my path. Forgive my short notice in asking you here, but I’ve heard of your proficiency with lifting curses, and as you well know, we’ve quite an advanced one on our hands. I would be honored to hear your wisdom on the matter.”

“I’m happy to lend my advice, but-“

“You have urgent matters to attend to. So I’ve been told,” she said, interrupting him. “I’ve dispatched a handful of men to inquire about your sorceress around the area.It’s the least I could do to repay you.”

“Saskia?” The prince called out, gesturing toward the table from across the room. “If you please…”

“Come. Sit,” she said to Geralt. “We’re ready to begin.”

Geralt didn’t like the idea of entrusting the search for Triss to Saskia’s men, but realizing he had little say in the matter, he took his place at the table and contented himself with a large baguette and a goblet of pear juice.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Stennis began, “I have called this meeting to order to discuss the most vexing of news. As you have no doubt heard by now, Henselt of Kaedwen has crossed the Pontar, bringing with him six thousand of his finest soldiers. As we speak, they are preparing for war, which, having exhausted our attempts to parlay, seems at this point an inevitability. His demands were heinous - total surrender of the Pontar Valley, including Vergen and its mines, to his control. Given the lack of support we presently have from the other northern realms and the size of our army - or lack, thereof - we find ourselves at a tactical disadvantage, and teetering on the precipice of annihilation. It is up to us, then, to establish a proper course of action.”

A dark heaviness settled over the room, as Geralt took a sausage link from the basket at the empty seat beside him and began chewing on it. Saskia spoke next.

“Majesty, if I may… this is not a difficult _decision_ , but a difficult _task_ ahead of us. The decision, my lords and lady, is clear. We must fight to defend our land. This greedy northern monarch has wronged us, and seeks to intimidate us into submission - but he has greatly underestimated us. We are not those who shrink back from battle. We are not those who run for the hills, forsaking our homes and families, in deference to some overstuffed leader’s claim to ‘birthright.’ This land is ours. _We_ till it. _We_ mine it. We’ve built it, and by the gods, we will defend it! Henselt has underestimated us. We will repel his advance and send him staggering back to Ard Carraigh in shame and defeat.”

“A rousing speech, general,” one of the nobleman aside Stennis replied condescendingly, “but one rooted more in patriotism than pragmatism.”

“More like ‘fantasy!’” Another nobleman added. “What good will these walls do in the face of six thousand trained men, not to mention Kaedwen’s siegecraft?”

“I applaud your love of country, Lady Saskia” Stennis said, “but what good will it be to fight for a country that none will survive to inhabit?”

Saskia scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “First of all, I am merely ‘Saskia,’ for I was afforded no title by birth, neither did I purchase one. You will recall, my lord, that I have earned the respect and goodwill of these soldiers - and the people of Aedirn - by fighting for things that should be defended… and by prevailing. Have you forgotten the past two years? We are no militia. Our numbers are small, true… but we are battle-hardened, strong and fearless.”

“That we are!” Yarpen shouted, slapping the table.

“Hear, hear!” Cecil agreed.

“What, then, are our numbers?” One of the modestly-dressed men asked.

“Mister Zigrin?” Saskia asked.

“We’ve got a good two hundred dwarves, ready with axe in hand,” he replied, audible pride in his voice, “and another two dozen to boil the buggers from the walls with hot oil, mining explosives and other such defenses.

“Thank you,” Saskia acknowledged, turning next to a man directly across from her. “Mister Wallace?”

“With a day’s advance, we could muster upwards of five hundred men. Peasants, mind you, not soldiers, but able to wield a sword.”

“Very good,” the general said. “In addition to these, I am expecting a ballista and a hundred men from Aryan La Valette in the next two to three days."

“Temerians?” One of the nobleman questioned. “Upon what grounds?”

“Upon those of liberty,” she replied smugly. “Having freed themselves from the shackles of an oppressive kingdom, they now seek to establish an ally with shared principles.”

“Well, our own knights are less eager to rush headlong into the teeth of the Kaedweni army,” the nobleman responded. “To date, forty-four have committed to the defense of the city, with another hundred or so armed men. At best, general, we stand outnumbered six to one, and that’s not even considering this magical cloud of immortal soldiers which haunts the battlefield.”

“Aye, what of the ghosts?” Yarpen piped up. “Strange happenings, those…”

“Allow me, Saskia,” Philippa said, leaning forward with her hands firmly planted on the table. “First of all, they’re wraiths. They’re not immortal, though they are quite dangerous.”

“Who summoned them? And how do we banish them?” One of the commoners asked.

“That is unclear at this time, but we have brought in an expert in that field - the witcher, Geralt of Rivia.”

“The Butcher of Blaviken?” One of the nobleman said incredulously. “Foltest’s assassin? What desperation has driven us to the likes of him?"

“Oh, Boslam, you dolt,” Philippa replied with a haughty air. “Do you believe every tale shared at the well? This man is no more Foltest’s killer than I am an arch-priestess of Melitele. He has, however, slain dozens of these foul beasts. Please, stick to finances, and do not speak to matters beyond your understanding.

The man turned beet red with a mixture of anger and shame, but offered no rebuttal.

“Back to the more pressing matter,” Stennis said, “We are simply outnumbered, Saskia. We should use this opportunity provided by the phenomenon to explore options for further peace negotiations.”

The dragonslayer smiled wryly, as though she’d just drawn a winning hand in gwent. “What if we had archers upon the walls of the city?” She asked, looking her detractors in the eyes.

“A wonderful idea, lady general, but a farmer with a bow in hand does not an archer make,” the non-red nobleman replied in a patronizing tone which failed to provoke Saskia.

“Oh, I agree, I agree, Lord Demetian. We need professionals. Skalen?” A young dwarf came quickly to her side. “Bring our final guest in.” The dwarf scurried away as she continued. “We are outnumbered, as you are so apt to remind everyone around this table, but that does not mean we are outmatched. These dwarven walls, which are already formidable, will swing the odds in our favor once we add a few hundred elven bows atop them. Gentlemen, I present to you Iorveth, commander of the finest battalion of archers in the world.”

The commando entered behind Saskia’s courier, dressed in battle uniform and jaw squared with confidence. There was an immediate and audible murmuring form the human side of the table, which only intensified when the elf took his place in the empty chair between Geralt and Saskia.

“You would entrust our lives to this… savage?” A nobleman said, his voice cracking as he gestured wildly. “A murderer who skins humans alive for sport, who burns the houses of our children down on top of them as they sleep? Have you lost your mind, woman?”

“Have you lost your nerve?” She fired back. “We can win this fight with the right strategic advantages in place, and that is precisely what Iorveth gives us. In one week’s time, he will have three hundred of the deadliest marksmen on the planet at our disposal. If that’s not enough to stiffen your spine, perhaps you lack the fortitude to take action at all.”

“That is enough!” Stennis interjected harshly. “Saskia, this is unacceptable. To invite a witcher is forgivable, albeit unwise, but to bring that elf and seat him at this table without so much as informing me? You tread a fine line between boldness and insubordination, general.”

“Iorveth only just arrived, my lord, though I will admit, he and I have had many talks on the issue. What matters most here is that he gives us the upper hand. Surely we can all put aside matters of taste and preference for the sake of the preservation of this great city.”

“Aye! Bring in the squirrels,” Zoltan shouted, initiating an echo of sentiments from the dwarven side of the table

“I cannot abide with this,” the nobleman on Stennis’s left said, thrusting his chair from the table demonstratively and storming out of the room.

“Blind prejudice. Typical dh’oine,” Iorveth muttered.

“Clearly we are all passionate about the subject,” Philippa stated firmly, trying to quell the growing tension in the room. “I believe a brief recess is in order. I propose we reconvene in an hour, at which point we can have lunch brought in. Hopefully we can continue our conversation in a more civil manner.”

“We’ve only just begun, Lady Eilhart,” Stennis objected. “And rather than arrive at conclusions, we’ve muddied the waters further. We _must_ discuss options for further negations or a tactical withdrawal from Vergen.”

“Withdrawal?!” Yarpen shouted. “They only tactical withdrawal here is that of your bollocks retreating back into your body. This is a _dwarven_ town, _oh noble prince_. We’ll not abandon it at the whim of some limp-prick laddie who lacks the nerve to defend it.”

A riotous argument broke out between the different factions, with a variety of colorful slurs being thrown across the table in cacophonous unison. Geralt grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and took another baguette from the basket, grateful for his neutrality. Ninety minutes of arguing later, options had been discussed for all manner of responses to Henselt’s threats, but no decision had been made. Stennis finally agreed to a recess, and the coalition dispersed. When they reconvened an hour later, tensions were noticeably lower, due as much to the presence of food and wine as to the pause in the arguments.

Stennis called the meeting back to order, and had just begun recapping the details for marshaling peasant troops when Saskia began coughing violently, gasping for air in between fits of growing intensity. Eleven sets of eyes were fixed on the young general, whose wheezing gasps became urgent as her already-fair complexion turned ghostly white.

“Saskia?” Philippa said, rising from her seat in concern. “What is it, dear? What’s wrong?”  
The dragonslayer was unable to respond. Two gasps later, her panicked eyes rolled back and she slumped out of her chair and onto the cold stone floor, convulsing erratically.

“She’s suffocating!” Iorveth shouted, cradling her head in his hands as she vomited bloody mucus. Geralt worked to keep the gathering crowd of concerned spectators away as Philippa frantically chanted, waving her hands in calculated motions.

Vergen’s coalition looked on in horror as the vomiting and convulsing slowed and Philippa’s spells grew louder. Saskia lay motionless for seconds at a time, sporadically twitching or gasping a wheezing breath. Geralt had been around death long enough to recognize the signs of a body failing. She was in death throes. Soon, the others came to the same conclusion.

“Do something, witch!” Iorveth pleaded, stroking the dying woman’s face.

“I’m trying!” She growled, sweat dripping from her forehead to the floor in salty droplets.

Amidst the commotion, Geralt had the presence of mind to inspect the food and drink at Saskia’s table setting. The pheasant breast and pomegranate on the decorative wooden plate were untouched, but barely-perceptible lip marks on her copper goblet confirmed she’d had at least a taste of the wine it held. He took the goblet, swirled and sniffed the fragrances, and set it back down carefully.

“Philippa-“ he said sternly, gaining her attention for a brief moment. “It’s poison.”

“Obviously.”

“Foxglove, oleander… something else I don’t recognize.”

The sorceress inhaled sharply. “Thaumador. Damnit. _Damnit_! Someone bring a damp cloth. Quickly! I have to slow her circulation…”

After another minute of urgent spell-casting, Philippa relented, falling to the ground herself in exhaustion.

“Someone fetch a cart and move her to my residence. Carefully! Lay her in the bed on the second floor and fan her constantly. I shall be there momentarily.” Her eyes had the same red-streaked signs of strain that Triss’s bore when escaping the Scoia’tael ambush. Distrust or not, Geralt pitied her. He helped her to her feet, then followed the procession across the cobblestone pathway to her temporary home, carved into the granite mountainside.

Along with Zoltan and Iorveth, the witcher waited patiently outside the heavy, studded door of the house, saying little for nearly an hour as the sorceress worked on Saskia in solitude. When she finally appeared, the streaks in her eyes were stronger, but the expression on her face was far less dire.

“Is she alive?” Iorveth asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” the exhausted sorceress replied. “I’ve slowed her life functions as much as possible. Her condition is… stable.”

“Surely there’s something we can do,” the elf said, shaking his head subtly.

“The poison that has struck her body is a variant of Thaumador, commonly known as magepain. She’s fortunate - few survive the initial shock. I could concoct an antidote, but doing so will require elements not easily found in the mountains.”

“Make a list,” Iorveth said. “You shall have what you need, whether it’s found in the plains of Zerrikania or at the bottom of the sea.”

“Come inside. I have a list compiled, but I’ll need to explain a few things to you in order to ensure we have the right variants. And witcher? I should very much like a word with you, once I’ve had some time to rest. Shall we say nine o’clock?”

He sighed. “Okay.”

“Come, Iorveth. We’ve no time to waste.”

———————————————————

The night air was refreshingly cool and crisp as Geralt climbed the seemingly endless winding steps to Philippa’s residence. Gusts of wind slipped over the sheer stone facades periodically, tousling his hair and causing the torch lights along the narrow streets to flicker and sway. He muttered profanely, cursing his fate with each step of the final climb to her door, frustrated that the wound on his thigh still produced as much discomfort as it did. After a firm knock on the door, the sorceress invited him in, still dressed in the kind of formalwear only seen at royal balls and feasts.

“How’s your patient?” He asked, as she turned to face him.

“She's in a coma, Geralt. What is there to say? She’s still breathing. Considering today’s events, I’d say she’s doing as well as can be expected.”

“Fair enough. What do you need to speak with me about?”

“Listen, Geralt, we clearly got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we dispense with the sore feelings and work together like the professionals we are? I believe we can help each other a great deal.”

He pressed his lips together in a flat frown. “Let me guess - you need a witcher to lift the battlefield curse.”

She laughed condescendingly. “No, dear boy. The spell is of no concern to me. I know both who cast it and how to lift it, but at the moment, it’s actually working to our advantage.”

“And you decided to hide this information from the war council because…”

“Because we need more time to ready our defenses, and the fog will keep that coward of a prince from selling us out.”

“Care to share the details, then, or do you still distrust me?”

“Trust has little to do with it. Does the name ‘Sabrina Glevisig’ ring a bell?”

“No.”

“Right. So, there’s no point in wasting breath explaining it. Suffice it to say that she was a colleague of mine who ran afoul of Henselt, and was summarily burned at the stake not far from here. I recognized` her voice echoing in the whispers of the fog. A blood curse. I have no doubt Henselt’s mages will stumble upon the solution eventually, but as I said, I’m in no hurry to assist them.”

“Then why did you summon me?”

“Because I require your unique skills to help me ascertain the identity of the person - or persons - who sought to take Saskia’s life.”

“My skills? Why don’t you find out for yourself? You’re so fond of poking around in other people’s minds, it should be no trouble for you.”

She sighed deeply. “Honestly, Geralt, must you be obtuse? Allow me to spell it out for you in simpler terms. My disdain for Stennis is no secret. Any conclusion implicating him or his court would be dismissed on grounds of impartiality. Besides that, Saskia needs my attention around the clock. Her health must now be my utmost concern. Do you understand? Clearly I don’t _want_ your help, but at the moment I need it. Your investigative ability is unparalleled, and your incorrigible sense of justice will ensure the trustworthiness of your conclusion. Find the conspirators and incapacitate them in whatever way seems best. After all, they may target either of us next.”

The witcher drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m busy. I’d love to help, but-“

“But first you need to find Triss Merigold,” she interrupted, a witty smirk bending her mouth. “Though I _am_ curious why it’s such a secret mission. Surely you know she and I are friends.”

Geralt frowned, frustrated with his inability to conceal information from the sorceress, who was still at that moment searching his mind for information. “What manner of trouble has little miss Merigold gotten herself into that… oh! _Oooooooh_ , I see,” she said with a chuckle. “You’re in love with her. Oh, Geralt, _Geralt_ … that is so _very_ like you. Poor Yenna…”

His anger and annoyance melted in an instant when he heard that name. “Wait - you know Yennefer?”  
Philippa scoffed, tilting her head in surprise. “ _Know_ her? Why, she’s practically family. How is she? I do hope things between you didn’t end _too_ badly.”

“I… I don’t know,” Geralt said, more hopeful and confused than he had been in a long time. “We were separated somehow. Related to my amnesia. I only remember her in glimpses, but I know I need to find her. It’s hard to explain.”

“Oh my. Well, you are in quite the predicament,” she replied. “One which my unique skills can help you out of. So, if you’re finished dragging your feet like a petulant child, I will present my offer: I shall help you locate Triss, and do whatever I can to help you find Yennefer as well… but first-“

“A favor for a favor.”

“Nothing comes for free in this life, witcher. You of all people should understand that.”

“Fine. I’ll see what I can learn.”


	13. An Investigation

Before he’d descended the first flight of stairs, Geralt could hear the murmuring roar of an angry mob, wafting through the stone alleys from the general direction of the keep. “Bring out the golden boy!” One voice shouted. “Let him answer for his crimes!” Echoed another. “Back up, you lout, or I’ll tear you a new arsehole!” Threatened another.

 _Well, that’s terrific_ , the witcher mused resentfully. He’d hoped to begin the investigation after a good night’s sleep, but the simmering mob forced his hand.

The scene outside the iron gates of the stronghold was just as he expected. Dozens of peasants were pressed together in a writhing mass like ants on a carcass, illuminated by the flickering of torches held alongside spears, axes and the all-too-cliché pitchforks. A band of dwarves stood shoulder to shoulder in a small semicircle around the bolted door, waving wide-bladed axes threateningly. Within that semicircle, Cecil Burdon shouted to the unruly crowd, pleading for calmer tempers as nervous sweat glistened in beads on his shaven head. Few could make out his words, and those who did ignored them.

“Geralt!” A voice called from amidst the cluster of faces. Zoltan squirted out of the crowd, cursing foully as he elbowed one rioter and stepped on the toes of another to clear a path. “It’s good that you’ve come. The whole of Vergen’s gone mad. It’s more than Cecil can control.”

“What’s the problem?” Geralt half shouted, struggling to converse over the noise.

“It’s like this,” Zoltan said, drawing in to speak into his ear. “A half hour ago, Saskia’s servant, ‘Willy,’ or ‘Wally,’ or some shite, starts telling people ’twas Stennis himself poisoned ‘er. Well, as you’d expect, the peasants went mad with rage, intendin’ to lynch the royal sod. ‘Course when they got here, the nobility locked him in the keep, refused to let anyone past. Cecil brought the city guard in, but as ye can see, they’re a bit outnumbered.”

“Where's this servant? Does he have proof?”

“He made himself scarce. Hidin’ out somewhere under Iorveth’s protection.”

“Protection? From whom?”

“From the nobles. See - they pointed the finger at Skalen, the dwarf that served Saskia the wine, only, they’ve no proof either. When Willy started accusing Stennis, they tried to shut him up, and he ran. Daft bugger. Should’ve ploughin’ expected as much.”

“Where’s Skalen, then?”  
“Inside the keep. Cecil won’t let the crowd in for either one. Tryin’ to keep the peace he is, but I dinnae think he’d hold out much longer.”

Geralt stroked his forehead in frustration. “Why do I do it, Zoltan? Why do I get myself into these situations?” He breathed a long, weary sigh. “Stand back.”

The wWitcher used his muscular frame to press his way through the crowd, turning when he reached the dwarven defensive line. Concentrating and channeling energy using the technique Triss taught him, he formed the Aard sign and pushed with all his might. The dense crowd collapsed and bent backward like stalks of wheat under a gale, their torchlight extinguished by the sudden rush of magical force.

“Listen to me!” His voice thundered through the ensuing stunned silence. “No one is getting lynched tonight. This is a town of order, and we will conduct an orderly investigation. Anyone who has a problem with that can have a taste of a witcher’s blade.” He drew his sword slowly and held it at the ready, striking an intimidating pose as he towered over the dumbstruck crowd, most of whom were still on the ground.

Cecil took the opportunity to regain control of the situation. “The witcher is impartial. He’ll make sure justice is rendered. Return to your homes.”

The crowd murmured, but no one objected. One by one, they dispersed, as Cecil turned his attention to his new deputy.

“I thank ye, Geralt. Once again.”

“Don’t expect that to last long,” he replied. “You should double your guards.”

“Aye, I will. You intend to find the culprit, then?”  
“Yes. After I sleep.”

“O-of course, yes. Sleep would do all parties concerned some good. Do come and see me in the morning, though. I’d like to hear what you find.”

“I will. See you in the morning.”

———————————————————

The smell of fresh-baked bread and sausage was intoxicating, even to a full stomach. Geralt found himself distracted both by the delicious scent and the amount of tiny food bits that found their way to the alderman’s beard. In Cecil’s defense, he rarely held meetings during breakfast, but the witcher had arrived at dawn, and he was as antsy as the white-haired warrior to get the investigation underway.

“So, Stennis, obviously,” he said, pausing to drink deeply from a metal mug and wipe his beard with a burgundy checkered handkerchief. “In my mind, he’s the most likely suspect. You were there yesterday - it was clear as day that he didna agree with Saskia’s ideas… nor her decision to include the Scoia’tael… o-or you, for that matter.” He paused again for a moment, stroking the tuft of hair under his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. “I do have to say, though - and know I’m not accusing ye, master witcher - but… it did seem to me rather odd that she invited you to the table. N-no offense, mind ye.”

“I was equally surprised.”

“She seemed to take a liking to ye. I suspected perhaps the two of you’s knew each other.”

“I lost my memory about six months ago…” Geralt explained, searching his mind for any hint of how he might have known Saskia before. She did have a sense of familiarity, but it was such a fleeting thought that merely focusing on it chased it away.

“Ah. I see. Well, no matter. So, you’d asked me for suspects - Stennis, of course. Also, we must at least look into these accusations against Skalen. Though, I must be forthright with ye. He’s my brother’s son. He’s a bit immature, irresponsible at times, but I assure ye, he’s no killer. Least of all people Saskia. She’s one step short of divine in the eyes of the folk here.”

“Anyone else? Enemies she made? Someone who would benefit from her death?”

“Henselt… though with that fog, I dinna think it possible an assassin would’ve made it through.”

“You’d be surprised what assassins are capable of,” Geralt replied, eyebrows raised with a sigh. “Besides, if he used a spy, they most likely would’ve been here for weeks - if not months.”

“Not in our town, master witcher,” Cecil said, indignant and proud. “Vergeni’s are loyal to their own. We’d sniff out a rat.”

“Everyone has a price, Cecil. We can’t rule it out.”

“Aw, fine. But barkin’ up that tree’d be a waste of yer time.”

“Any other long shots? I don’t like to ignore leads.”

“The noblemen, perhaps? Lord Boslam’s a limp-pricked coward - uh, pardon the language. He’d lack the bollocks to order someone killed, see? The other one next to the prince, though, Demetian? He’s a different story. Cunning bastard. And cold eyes. Always calculating. I dinna trust either of ‘em further than I can spit.”

“That’s a start, at least. Thank you for your time.”

Cecil took time to swallow his food, wipe his mouth, and look directly into the eyes of the witcher. “Catch the bastard who did this. And when you do… plough the law. Kill the son of a bitch.”

Geralt left the alderman to his breakfast, and went back to the keep. Despite the early hour, a dozen or so protestors were already gathered around the door, verbally harassing Cecil’s guards. He passed silently by the dwarves and went straight to the conference room. Thankfully, no one had cleaned the scene of the crime. He inspected the wine goblets for the other participants, as well as the pitcher which filled them. Other than Saskia’s goblet, there was no evidence of poison. He inspected the vessel - it was finely crafted, ornate inside and out, unlike the others. An assassin seeking to single her out could have tampered with it long before liquid was poured in, especially with a toxin as potent as magepain.

Satisfied with the inspection, Geralt turned his attention to the prince, but Stennis’ valet refused access, claiming he was “presently indisposed.” Annoyed and suspicious, he went instead to question Skalen. The young dwarf was restricted to his quarters, more for his protection than as a punishment. He sprang to his feet as soon as Geralt entered the room, words spewing from his mouth like a geyser.

“Master witcher! They said you’d be investigating that terrible deed. Listen, sir. You must know, I would never, _never_ do anything to harm our Lady. Why, I’d take an arrow through the heart for her! As would my kin. We Burdons are loyal - loyal to death. I’ll do anything I can to help. Anything at all.”

“…Okay. For starters, explain everything you remember from the meeting yesterday. You were the one who poured the wine. Where did it come from?”  
“Straight from the cellar, sir. Ahlgrim, the wine taster, he samples every bit we pull up. Did the same yesterday. Always in the presence of two witnesses - myself and the cook, Ralphe. We watched him, sir. Watched him sip and swallow. We’re always careful. Always.”

“How did the wine poison only Saskia?” Geralt asked, watching the dwarf’s expression closely.

“Only the gods could say, sir.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t take gods to come up with some possibilities. For example, the steward could slip something discretely into the goblet as he poured…”

Skalen’s eyes went wide with fear. “Me? I could never… surely you don’t… I poured the drink in full view of the room. You saw yourself, sir, I didn’t put anything in.”

“No one was paying attention, Skalen. Ever heard of sleight of hand?”

“Sleight of _what_ , master?”  
“Never mind. Was anyone else in the kitchen, besides you, Ralphe and Ahlgrim?”

“No, no one. As you can imagine, we keep a pretty tight lock on it.”

“That narrows the suspects quite a bit.”

“It must’ve been magic, then. Some kind of dark magic. We did everything by the book. Just as we were told.”

“Tell me about Willy - Saskia’s servant.”

“Odd bugger, that one. What do you need to know?”

“Where could I find him?”

“Word is, he sought shelter with the squirrels outside the city. Those nobles didn’t take kindly to him pointing the finger at the prince.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Geralt said, turning to leave. “I may have more questions for you later.”

“You don’t - you don’t think…”

“Don’t go anywhere.”

He headed next to the Scoia’tael camp, which was situated just off the northern pass between the city and the magical fog. The elves were accommodating, and in short order, a young, sandy-haired man appeared, fidgeting nervously with his fingers.

“Are you Saskia’s servant?” Geralt asked plainly.

“No. Maybe. It depends. Depends on who’s asking.” The man spoke in quick, uncomfortable bursts of sound.

“I need to talk to you about what you said last night. You claim Stennis is the one who poisoned Saskia…”

“Nope! Nope. I didn’t say nothing. I swear. Swear on my mother’s grave.”

His pulse was racing, brow sweating, eyes darting in every direction except the witcher. It didn’t take telepathy to tell he was hiding something. Geralt subtly formed the Sign of Axii and spoke with a slow, methodical pace.

“It’s very relaxing here outside the walls. The elves keep you safe. You were about to tell me everything you know about Saskia’s poisoning, remember?”

Willy’s eyes unfocused and his pulse slowed. “…yes… yes, I… suppose I was.”

“Why did you tell people Stennis poisoned Saskia? What exactly did you see or hear?”

“I was preparing milady’s bed for her three days past,” he said, “when I heard the prince and the priest talking. The prince - his room is next to milady’s.”

“What priest? Who?”

“Olcan. The one who was slain by the Kaedweni’s.”

Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Great. So he can’t confirm or deny your accusation.”

“I heard it, master witcher. I swear it. Olcan, he says to Stennis, ‘Something must be done about that woman.’ Says not to be fooled by her fair appearance, says underneath the beauty she’s a beast.”

“And?”

“Well, it was hard to hear, they lowered their voices. But I did hear the priest say something about the kitchen.”

“And you were confident enough in _that_ to accuse a crown prince of murder?”

“It seemed right at the time.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re an idiot?”

“Often, sir. Often.”

“One more question. The table service for the conference room - where is it washed? Who has access to it?”

“The kitchen, of course.”

“And Saskia’s goblet - the jeweled one - does she always drink out of it?”

“I suppose so. At least, when she’s in the conference rom.”

“Who else knows this?”  
“About her goblet? I can’t say, sir, but I would imagine not many. Only those who regularly meet with her. The prince, Lords Boslam and Demetian, Cecil Burdon, Yarpen Zigrin. Perhaps Skalen Burdon.”

“And is the kitchen locked when it’s not in use?”

“Always.”

“Who holds the key?”

“I can’t say for sure. Master Burdon - Cecil, that is, the Alderman. And milady, of course, but it was that murderous bastard, Stennis. He’s the only other one with a key.”

“The prince unlocks doors for people? I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh, not the prince himself, of course. His valet, Ferund.”

“That’s all I needed to know, but let me give you some advice - if you like your head the way it’s attached to your body, be more careful about accusing royalty in the future.”

“Of course, sir. Of course. How is milady, if I may ask?”

“Not good. Better hope she pulls through.”

It was nearing lunch time, so Geralt headed back to the tavern to eat. He ordered a modest plate, sat alone at a table, and ate in silence, entertained by the chatter from the other patrons. Across the room, a pair of old men were sharing complaints about joint pain. A middle aged man was trying his luck with a much younger, more attractive woman at the bar, and getting nowhere. Downstairs, two men were fist fighting while bystanders took bets on who would win. And then, something from a few tables over grabbed his attention. He listened in more closely, and his pulse started to race.

“Are ye snortin’ fissteck, Wendel? Or have ye just gone mad?”  
“I swear it! She fell right outta the sky. Fairest maiden I ever laid eyes on. Honey-red locks like a fairy, with an arse firm as a coupla’ ripe plums, ready for pluckin’.”

“Oh aye? And if she’s so bonny, why didn’tya bring ‘er back to town, eh?”

“I told ye, ye daft bastard! There was a giant, fell with ‘er. And after _he_ left, a troll. Huge and vicious, and ugly as shite after blueberries. He carried her off.”

Geralt heard enough. He nearly leapt from his chair, walking immediately to the two dwarves and slapping his hand down on the table.

“Where did you see the woman?” He asked intensely. The dwarves looked up angrily.

“And who the devil are you?” One responded, wiping spilled beer from his auburn beard.

“Someone who believes your friend’s story. This woman, where did you see her?”

“In the gullies,” the other dwarf answered, clearly surprised someone believed him. “Not the far eastern one, but the next one over. I was pickin’ longrubes - they grow there this time o’ year.”

“What gullies? How do I get there?”

“What are you, daft?” The dwarf replied with furrowed brows. “The channels, aye?”  
“He’s not from around here, idiot,” the other dwarf said. “Two years back, Henselt’s witch put an end to a battle by settin’ the whole field o’ men ablaze. The bitch ploughin’ called down fireballs like a godddamn hailstorm. Killed everyone, burned the soil and left ravines like giant scars on our land. _Those_ channels.”

“Was she alive when you found her?” Geralt asked, actively suppressing his heart rate and breathing.

“I couldn’t be sure, it was a long way to fall,” the dwarf answered, “but I heard sounds as from someone in pain, and they surely didn’t come from that monster she fell with.”

“What did he look like? Dressed in leather, no sleeves, shaved head?”

The dwarf’s bushy brows furrowed further. “Aye… exactly.”

“I need you to give me directions. Be precise. That woman’s life depends on it.”

———————————————————

The “gullies,” as the locals called it, was an eerily unnatural landscape. Unlike natural ravines cut by thousands of years of flowing water, its deep, rounded bottom was uniform and unwavering - as if the deep gouge through the topsoil and into the rock-bed below had been carved by a giant finger. Little grew in the rocky ground, other than the odd cluster of tall, scraggly weeds which sprouted up seemingly out of the rock itself. The afternoon sun beat down on Geralt’s shoulders as he climbed the incline, ignoring the subtle protestations of his thigh wound. After traveling nearly a mile in increasing discomfort, he picked up on the off-putting aroma of boiling flesh - the humanoid variety. He increased the pace, following the smell until he came to the source - a rock troll.

The troll was unusually large, even for his species, nearly twelve feet worth of leathery grey skin and bony, rock-like protrusions. Atop the veritable mountain of hunched-over flesh sat a small head with common features for trolls - diminutive, pointed ears, small, coal-black eyes on either side of flat nostrils, and a large mouth with a sloppy assortment of long, sharp teeth. The troll was humming idly, so caught up with the contents of his pot that he didn’t notice the witcher approach until he was a few yards away.

“Who there?!” The troll shouted, his large, antler necklace swaying as he suddenly stood upright. As with other trolls, his deep, growling voice was so low-pitched that Geralt had to pay close attention to make out the words.

“A witcher,” he replied calmly.

“Humies wishas send for me kill?” The troll said with an awkward motion resembling a shrug. “So be. Kill. Quick. No pain.”

“First, tell me where the woman is that you kidnapped.”

“Kidnap not! Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii troll!”

“A dwarf saw you carry off a woman not far from here.”

The troll grunted, smacking the side of his head with his palm. “Midge stupid. Sick she. Me carry. Her help, feed, pet… but she run-go…” He paused, sighing deeply and shaking his head. “Missus first run-go, redhead then. All gone. Soup only stay.”

“What’s in the pot?” Geralt asked, afraid of what he might find. From this distance, the odor of boiling entrails was oppressively bad.

“Soup! You no hear? Elf and onion. Gooooooood. Want try?”

“…I… don’t really care for onions.”

“Stupid wisha. Elf _good_ with onions! Tomato like.”

“Where did you get the elves?”

“Missus bring from gullies, like I bring redhead…”

Geralt’s heart nearly stopped. “The redhead’s in the soup too?!”

“No, no no no. Redhead run-go. Missus run-go. All gone. Only soup stay.”

Able to breathe again, Geralt collected himself and continued asking questions.

“Tell me - what happened here? When did you find the… redhead?”

“Me in gullies,” the troll said slowly, as though the task of recalling details was taxing. “Missus in gullies. Bones found, nice to gnaw. Then WHAM! Humies from sky fall! Missus no uh… no uh… missus say, ‘no true.’ But troll true tell! Flash! Crack! Two humies drop where sound make. Humie man, big like troll, and humie womyn. I go see… big man run from gullies, leave redhead. Stupid humie. See I go. Redhead grooooooaaaaaan. Her pain! Closer I creep. Run she not. Leg her not work. Leg… blood. Troll take humie womyn, go home.”

“Then what?”

“Uh…Oh! Home. Missus angry! Call humie ‘wench. Thin-bones.’ Hungry missus, yap and yap and yap… yap, yap, yap, yap, yap…then run go own for food. Give water redhead humie. Leaves cover leg. Humie redhead nice. Sleep much. Pet she, when sleeps. Redhead have… uh… rag? No word. Have rag. Niiiiiiiiice to smell… missus come back, missus find elf. ‘Drop thinwench, idgit!’ She shout. Missus yap, yap, yap. ‘Rag give!’ She say. Troll say not. Nice to feel. Stench troll like. Missus say, ‘she or me.’ Troll think: nice redhead, nice rag stench. Troll missus tell. Missus troll with log beat! Beat and run go. But elf left. Stupid missus.”

“What happened to the redhead?”

“Redhead, uh… wrongpain. Redhead stay. Pain gone, redhead run-go. At night - troll sleep. Windhowl empty.”

“Do you still have the rag?”

The troll hung his head. “No. Missus take. Leaves elf, rag steal! Then, run-go.”

“Where did she go - your… wife?”

The troll pointed a thick, bony finger toward the further expanse of the gorge. “Gullies. Missus gullies like, gullies me like…”

“Why don’t I look for her… for you, of course.”

The troll stood upright again, puffing out his leathery chest. “Wisha misses no kill! Good old bug. Eh… little batty.”

“I won’t hurt your woman, I just need to talk to her.”

The troll drew in a long deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Missus tell… come back. Cave empty. Troll… sad. Soup make!”

“Fine. I’ll tell your woman to come back, but I need the scarf… the rag.”

“Missus have. Missus good! She up give. Soon as back.”

Geralt trekked further into the unnatural ravine, marveling as he went at the sheer size of it. The unwavering indentation into the earth seemed to go on indefinitely, which was no solace to the limping witcher. He sweat, spat and swore along the way for nearly two hours, before he caught the sound of fighting in the distance. He picked up the pace, and quickly came upon a ragged band of men - soldiers of some kind, based on their armament and mismatched armor. The pallor on their emaciated faces suggested it had been too long since they’d eaten or slept. One of the men waved him down as he approached. He was tall and stocky, with a shaved head and face, and eyebrows so fair that he looked nearly hairless altogether.

“Ahoy! Witcher! It seems the gods have sent you. Come, we have need of your help.”

“What’s going on over there?” He asked as he stepped closer, nodding his head toward the commotion around a nearby cave entrance. A pair of men were yelling, creeping forward cautiously, then retreating and starting the process over again.

“Ah, that would be the problem,” the bald man said with a sigh, wiping his brow and squinting in the setting sunlight at the witcher. “My men and I came upon a she-troll. Furious beast, and vicious. We wounded it, but without the proper weapons, she was too much for us. One of my boys has more valor than common sense, and chased the bitch into the cave. He’s trapped in there, legs snapped like twigs. Every time we try to get close, she hurls rocks the size of pumpkins at us. This is your area of expertise - if you could help us, well… we’d be mighty grateful. I-I… know you don’t work for free, but as a fellow sword for hire, perhaps you’d be willing to do a small favor?”

“Sword for hire, is it? Who are you? Mercenaries?”

“Adam Pangratt,” the man said, extending a hand. “And I prefer, ‘private security,’ but hell, who’re we kidding, huh? I kill for coin, and these louts are my subordinates.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” the witcher said, shaking the man’s hand. “And I’ll take care of your troll problem, but I’m gonna need her alive.”

“Alive? What the hell for?”

“She has information I need. It’s complicated.”

“A witcher conversing with trolls? Who ever heard of such a thing?”

Geralt looked at the man oddly for a moment, unsure whether he should pity him or correct him. “You should get out more. Speaking of… what are you doing out here? Connected to the war somehow?"

“Actually, no. We were on retainer for Henselt, but we’re here on a contract for a witcher, of all things. Not you, of course. We’re to find a bald one with a snake medallion.”

Geralt raised one eyebrow, his attention piqued. “Letho of Gullet. I know him. I take it you haven’t found him?”

“We found _evidence_ of him - a whole band of squirrels, slashed and stabbed like pigs at a butcher’s. He must not be working alone.”

“He is. If you’d found him, it would be _you_ lying in your own blood. Who hired you?”

“Curious about your friend, are you? Sorry, but I’m not the type to give up on a contract.”

‘He’s not my friend,” Geralt replied flatly. “I’m trying to find him, too. Been chasing him since he assassinated Foltest. Now, tell me who hired you.”

“Foltest’s killer? Well god-ploughin’-damn! I need to renegotiate. It was a witch that hired us. Síle de Tansarville. She arrived at Henselt’s camp a few days back. Offered to pay handsomely for this ‘Letho.’”

“And what were you to do with him?”

“Kill him, of course. Him and anyone with him.”

A chill ran down Geralt’s spine, disrupting his poker face. If Síle sent mercenaries to the ravine after Letho, she must’ve known Triss would be with him - or at least suspected it.

“ _Anyone_ with him? Are you sure?”

“What, are you deaf? Or just daft? Everyone. Anyone. All persons.”

“Did she say why?”

“I don’t ask questions, witcher. Tend to get paid better that way. I’d expect you to understand.”

“It doesn’t matter right now. Do you know where he is, which way he went?”

“The bastard escaped through the mist. He’s on the other side somewhere - or hell, maybe he’s just havin’ a cup of tea with the ghosts in the midst of it. Who knows? All I know is that we couldn’t follow him through it. Now, I’ve answered your questions. Are you gonna help with the troll or not?”

Geralt heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I’ll help. Tell your men to get out of the way.”

He approached the entrance of the cave slowly, hands extended. “I know you’re in there, troll! I’m here to help you.”

A large rock wizzed by his head, easily dodged by a witcher’s reflexes.

“Humie run-go! Run-go, or troll eat!”

“I’ll make the bad men go away,” he said, inching closer, “just let me get this one out of your cave.”

“No!” The deep, gargling voice retorted. “Fat humie dinner. Troll eat. Youuuuuuuuu run-go!”

Geralt sidestepped another thrown rock, then moved to within a dozen feet or so, and cast Axii on the beast. She stood upright, blinking repeatedly, then began scratching the side of her head with her finger.

“I’m going to take the bad… humie out of your cave,” he said, walking slowly toward the whimpering man. “Then I’ll come back and we’ll talk.”

“Uh…ur…. Talk… you…”

“Uh-huh. We’ll have a good long talk.” Geralt groaned and wheezed, struggling to lift the hefty guard. He ferried him to the cave entrance, where Adam and his men received him with gratitude, then returned to the troll, who was still standing and scratching her head with a repetitive grating sound.

“I’m back. Ready for that scintillating talk?”

“Talk… troll, humie. Wissssssssssssssha?”

“Yes, I’m a witcher. A… good one. Are you alright?”

“Humies troll see. Troll hungry. Humies…” she made a cutting motion across her abdomen.

“They cut you?”

“Cut yes. Humies cut. Sharp stickies have. Want kill troll! You… other. Good you help. Troll… you help.”

“If you want to thank me, go back to your old man.”

She pounded a clenched fist against the stone ceiling, sending bits of shale and dust raining down in a grey cloud. “No! Idgit humie redhead grope!”

“He’s alone now. He misses you.”

“Tell him you: ‘too late!’”

Geralt sighed, putting a hand on his hip and shaking his head.

“Do you know anything about the woman who was in your cave? She was… is a friend.”

“Womyn troll know! Humie ugly. Humie… stench have.”

“Listen, I know you’re hungry. Your husband made soup for you. Go and have some.”

She hung her head, rubbing the top of her scaly skull for a long moment.

“Troll not want. But… troll hungry. Go back will.”

“Good. Let’s go now.”

The male troll was still standing over his cauldron, stirring in the glow of orange coals, which were the only light in a clouded night sky.

“Missus back!” He shouted, dropping his femur-turned-ladle and stretching his arms wide with an awkward, toothy expression which looked like what an approximation of a smile would be for a troll. “Gooooooooooood. Troll like!”

“Me back,” she said stopping a few paces back from the cauldron. “Wisha ask. Wisha no ask… not back.”

“Missus wiiiiiiise,” he replied, still grinning.

“Smile not! Idgit you! Humie womyn grope.”

“No more! Never gain. Humie run-go! Troll make soup. Elf and onion. Gooooooooooooooood. You try?”

The she-troll waddled over to the pot and took a sip. Geralt pulled the male aside.

“I returned your woman. Now, give me the rag.”

“Oooooooooo… Uh… Bah! Stupid old rag. I get. You take go.”

The troll stomped off and returned shortly with an embroidered scarf, stained with blood and dirt. After smelling it deeply one last time, He handed it to Geralt.

“Thanks,” the witcher said, tucking it into his shirt. “And, good luck with your wife. Maybe… take her some flowers.”

The troll scowled. “Flowers no! Flowers stench. Troll give… biiiiiiiiiiiiiird dung.”

“Well then… happy hunting.”

———————————————————

Geralt rolled the scarf over and over, sifting the fine green linen through his fingers as he climbed Vergen’s stone steps. The blood on the scarf belonged to Triss - he could smell it - and though he’d seen and smelled blood literally hundreds of times, he was somehow disturbed by it. The smell triggered synapses in his brain tied to vivid memories of freckled cheeks, soft, curved lips, chestnut locks twirled around his fingers, glistening in the light of a lazy morning. He typically kept such sentimentalities tucked neatly away in a mental vault, deep below the surface. All witchers were taught to do so. “Feelings impede logic,” his mentor used to say. “A distracted witcher is a dead witcher.” “Eyes focused on the past miss details in the present.” Though he had no recollection of when or how he learned these things, Geralt remembered them well. He believed in them. They cycled through his mind like a repetitive mantra with each stair he climbed, and yet, he couldn’t stop tousling the fabric that smelled like Triss. He wondered where this blood came from, and whether she was at that moment safe, or running for her life, or lying dead in a ravine somewhere.

“Stop. Control yourself,” he muttered, shoving the scarf back into the pocket of his leather jerkin forcefully. “Fear preserves; worry cripples. There is nothing but the path. There is nothing but the task.”

He was so caught up with his inner pep talk that he completely missed the sounds coming from Philippa’s residence, which should have advised him not to barge in, bullheaded and impetuous. After all, it was well after ten in the evening by that time, and polite, conscientious people ought always to knock before entering, especially at night. At the moment, however, the witcher was feeling neither polite nor conscientious.

“I know how to find Triss!” He announced triumphantly, flinging the unlocked door open… and freezing in his tracks as he realized the severity of his indiscretion.

Philippa was lying face down on the floor, supported by a burgundy tufted cushion and dressed only in a beige towel which was draped over her lower midsection. Kneeling next to her was a blond woman dressed in some type of lacy black lingerie item that Geralt had no term for. She shrieked when the door opened, dropping the bottle of fragrant oil she’d been massaging into the sorceresses back and scurrying out of the room. Geralt raised his eyebrows demonstratively, finding any spot in the room not occupied by Philippa or her scantily-clad masseuse to rest his gaze. Though in general he was not the type to pass up an alluring view of the female form, seeing Philippa Eilhart in that context seemed oddly incongruous. The sorceress, as were most all of the ones Geralt had encountered, was not especially concerned with concepts like modesty, and simply turned her head to speak to the witcher.

“There’s an ancient practice from the civilized world known as ‘knocking,’ Geralt. It’s understood to be a common courtesy when entering someone’s house at night. But I don’t suppose they taught you manners at Kaer Morhen.”

“Apologies.”

“Yes, yes, can’t expect an alleycat to behave like a house cat, now, can we? Come now, quit naval-gazing like a choir boy and hand me my robe. It’s not as if you’re unaccustomed to nudity - not with all the time you and Triss have been spending together. Well, what are you waiting for? Tell me about this new information you’ve gathered.”

He grabbed the silky robe and handed it to her without looking, eliciting a condescending chuckle from the sorceress. He waited for the sound of her belt to be tied, then turned to present his news.

“Yes, I’ve got a lead on Triss. But first… who was-“

“The other woman? Cynthia. A leashed sorceress.”

Now it was Geralt’s turn to chuckle. “A charming term. Does she come with a collar?”

She rolled her eyes. “The immaturity of men will never cease to amaze me. Cynthia is an _apprentice_. She’s studying under my tutelage, and while doing so she’s given permission to channel my power, learn my spells. ‘Leashed,’ while a regrettably crude term, is not altogether inaccurate.”

He started to ask about the risqué nature of the interaction he walked in on, but thought better of it. She answered the query anyway.

“And the type of activities we choose to engage in are none of your concern. My proclivities are well-documented, though I suppose you’ve forgotten that as well. But we decided to work together professionally, did we not? I dare say inquiries into one’s… sensual preferences fall far outside the scope of our partnership. Wouldn’t you agree?” She delivered the final question with a cold, glowering look which served as a warning, rather than a question.

“Sure.”

“Tell me what you’ve discovered about Triss, and be quick about it. I would very much like to resume the massage you’ve interrupted.”

Geralt produced the scarf from his shirt pocket and handed it to the sorceress. “Found this in one of the ravines nearby - got it from a troll. Long story. I reasoned if Triss could perform hydromancy using-“

“Yes, of course,” Philippa cut him off, squinting at the fabric, picking at it with her long, manicured fingernails, and returning it to him. “The scarf is useless, of course, but a strand of hair? Well, they call it ‘magic’ for good reason. I shall perform the rite in the morning, and we’ll see what comes of it. It’s a highly inexact process, hydromancy. I do hope you’ve tempered your expectations.”

He exhaled sharply from his nose, folding his arms and cocking his head slightly. “In the morning? Can’t you do it now?”

“No. I have a prior engagement which requires my attention. And besides, _you_ were supposed to be collecting information on Saskia’s poisoner, not hunting trolls in Sabrina’s ravines. That was our deal, was it not?”

He held his tongue with effort, donning an obviously forced smile. “I spent the first half of the day investigating for you.”

“And?”

“The evidence points toward the priest, Olcan, but I think Stennis had a hand in it.”

She pursed her lips in an annoyed frown. “That’s it?”

“It’s a process.”

“Apparently. I trust you’ll be resuming your search _in the morning_ , then?”

The condescension in both her tone and her haughty smirk were so thick they were nearly palpable. Geralt widened his poorly-executed false smile and imagined himself gesturing crudely toward the sorceress, holding the image long enough to be sure she noticed telepathically.

“Why, of course! With pleasure.”


	14. Royal Blood

Olcan’s house was odd for a priest’s residence. Typically, residences of the professionally pious were filled with religious texts, paintings and shrines. They occasionally contained a few potted plants, but never on the scale of those found in the deceased priest’s home. A wide variety of medicinal and alchemical herbs were planted in carefully-arranged grids, most of which Geralt recognized. The collection in and of itself wasn’t particularly odd, but the juxtaposition between a priest and a collection worthy of a town herbalist couldn’t have been starker. Intrigued, Geralt perused the eclectic collection, and found most - but not all - of the necessary ingredients for magepain. He had little doubt that the priest was the crafter of the poison, but that still left the matter of an accomplice - or mastermind.

Returning to the keep, Geralt found the crowd larger and angrier than ever. “Sate the gods, lynch the sod!” They chanted. On the stone walls in various places, the words, “blood for blood” were painted in red. Pushing through the mob with great effort, he entered the keep and was once again prevented access to the cloistered prince, this time by Lord Demetian, one of Stennis’s noblemen.

“As you've been told before, the prince is not accepting visitors,” he said sternly, his unusually long nose contributing to a shrill, piercing tone.

Geralt folded his arms in frustration. “I’m not a ‘visitor.’ I’m investigating the poisoning. Don’t you realize I have the power to help?”

Demetian squinted his dark eyes. “You have the power to instill fear, I’ll give you that, but as for that rabble in the courtyard? They won’t listen to the conclusions of a witcher. I fear they’re past the point of listening to anyone.”

“Except for Saskia.”

The nobleman rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Yes, yes, the virgin of Aedirn. _Please_. If we’d known the trouble elevating her would’ve caused… well, let’s just say that when setting fire to a neighbor’s barn, one must take care that the wind doesn’t blow it back onto one’s own.”

“Does her leadership threaten you?”

“Me? No. It’s that mass of plebes which threatens me.” The courtesan sighed deeply. “Few will admit to it, but Demavend was an inept ruler who pandered too often to the desires of his court. When he died, the country was instantly at each other’s throats. We happened to have a cult hero nearby leading a small army…”

“And you used her charisma to turn the peasants to your faction.”

“Naturally. Many noble heads rolled, but not ours. The trouble is, when you give a farmer a sword, it can become difficult to then replace it with a plough. Saskia’s a wise woman, but she fails to understand - this war will be over one day, and when that time comes, peasants must return to their place in society. After all, someone needs to raise crops and livestock. It’s a flawed system, granted, but it’s the only one that works, and in order for it to _keep_ working, it must be led by a monarch. Only one with the divine right to lead can inspire the necessary fidelity to keep the uneducated simpleton in his place. You are a pragmatist - that much is easy to see. It should be equally easy, then, to see what must be done here. Conclude your investigation and attest to Stennis’ innocence. After all, someone must lead the sheep.”

Geralt scowled. “And if he’s guilty?”

“My dear witcher, this is not a matter of guilt and innocence. It’s a matter of _perception_ , nothing more. If that fog were to lift in an hour, this town would be overrun and every one of us flayed upon the wall or enslaved to a foreign master. We need unity for survival’s sake.”

“A convenient line of reasoning for someone under such scrutiny…”

“I will have a word with the witcher,” a voice spoke from behind Geralt. He turned to see Stennis, overdressed as always.

“My lord-“

“Leave us, David,” the prince interrupted, lazily placing a hand up, as ifbackhanding a fly in slow motion.

Once the nobleman was out of the room, Stennis addressed Geralt.

“I did not poison Saskia. Despite our differences, I do not seek her death.”

“But Olcan did. Your priest.”

The young royal was visibly flustered by Geralt’s words, trying in vain to disguise it. “What an odd thing to say! What ever would give you that idea?”

“I know he spoke with you about killing her. I also know he had the means and aptitude to make it happen. What I _don’t_ know is who carried out the deed once he’d been killed.”

“Well, clearly I don’t know either!” Stennis said, stammering slightly as beads of sweat began to coalesce on his forehead.

“I think you do,” Geralt countered calmly, “and I think you’d do well to tell me. Cecil’s guards won’t hold out much longer. That mob out there has it in their heads that you tried to kill their savior, and prince or not, they’re hungry for blood.”

“Royal blood!” He retorted indignantly. “The gall of those… commoners! How easily they forget that it is _I_ who lead by divine right, inwhose veins flows the blood of noble birth. To even lob such a heinous accusation against one such as myself is grounds for beheading! I will address them myself and put an end to this nonsense… and you will accompany me.”

He brushed past Geralt, storming off toward the barricaded door in a petulant fit. Geralt sighed deeply, hands on his hips, then followed the prince outside.

“Silence! Silence! Listen!” Stennis pleaded with the crowd, but got nowhere, his voice lost in the angry shouts. A potato struck the prince in the shoulder, then another narrowly missed his face. A few rocks came next, though nothing to do serious injury. He cowered back, shielding his head with his silk-sleeved forearm.

“Do something, witcher!” He commanded. “Get their attention for a moment.”

Geralt stood right behind the beleaguered guards, held his right hand high above his head, and cast the Igni Sign. A brilliant flash of magical fire shot upward, expanding as it dissipated into the mountain air. “Quiet!” He yelled. “The prince is ready to address you, so shut the hell up. All of you.” Aside from a collective gasp, nothing could be heard from the shocked crowd. Stennis stepped up beside the witcher and began speaking.

“Friends, countrymen… we must stop this senseless bickering. I fear for Saskia’s life as you all do, and pray to the gods for a speedy recovery. I don’t know where this pernicious rumor originated, but allow me to assure you, publicly, that I had nothing to do with the tragic poisoning of our finest general.”

There was silence for a few fragile seconds before one of the peasants shouted back. “Murderer!” The crowd erupted in shouts and accusations again. With effort, Geralt was able to quiet them somewhat, at least enough to hear individual voices.

“The Witcher was to investigate - what has he learned?” One voice asked, echoed by several grunts and nods of assent. He calmed the crowd further before responding.

“Your priest, Olcan, was the one who devised the plan and brewed the poison,” he shouted, “but he didn’t act alone. It’s unclear whether the prince was part of the conspiracy, but-“

“Guilty!” A man near the front roared, shaking his fist. Geralt glared intensely at the man, who quieted as soon as he noticed, slinking back into the crowd like a beaten dog.

“ _But_ …” Geralt continued, “he is a suspect. He’s also your prince. Disperse this mob, and I’ll see to it that he stands trial.”

“String ‘im up!” A haggard woman shouted.

“We don’t need no prince!” A gangly teenager added.

“I am your prince, the son of Demavend,” Stennis shouted, “and I _will_ be addressed with honor!”  
“Then behave honorably,” a middle-aged man shouted. “Stand trial like any other commoner.”

“Aye! Will he actually submit to a court?” A young woman yelled from across the crowd.

“I am honor-bound to justice,” Stennis shouted back. “Even a prince is not above the law. I shall submit to a hearing in court, but only an impartial panel should be trusted with such matters. The summit of mages will be gathering in one week’s time. Let us present the evidence there. If they deem me guilty, may the law be done. If, however, they affirm my innocence, then those who incite violence against their royals will be _severely_ punished. Return to your homes!”

“And why should we trust you?” A voice from the crowd questioned.

“I’ll see to it that he keeps his word,” Geralt answered, kicking himself internally as he spoke. “And until the summit, the prince will be confined to his room under armed guard to be sure he follows through.”

Stennis shot an incredulous look at the witcher, but it was too late for a rebuttal. The crowd, appeased sufficiently, began to disperse little by little.

“Wipe that look off your face, _majesty_ ,” Geralt said into his ear. “I just saved your life. House arrest is better than being stabbed at random by one of your own countrymen.”

Two of the dwarves stepped out of the defensive line to escort Stennis back to his room. Geralt was about to follow them inside when he noticed someone pushing through the shrinking crowd shouting his name.

“Master Geralt! Master witcher, sir!”

He stepped closer to the elf, who was red-faced and out of breath. “What is it?”

“The sorceress needs you at once! You must make haste to her home.”

“Did she say why?”

“No sir, only that it concerns Saskia - and it’s urgent.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Geralt walked briskly to Philippa’s Vergen residence, and was ushered directly up to the spare room where Saskia lay on the large feathertop bed. By the looks on the faces of those in the room, things had taken a turn for the worse.

“Good! You’re finally here,” Philippa said, rising from Saskia’s side. The young leader, in whom all of Vergen’s hopes dwelt, was twitching and seizing, her long brown hair matted to her face in sweat-soaked curls as she drew in abrupt, wheezing breaths in a rapid cadence. Her pulse was weak and erratic, yet still visible in her emaciated neck and wrists. The sorceress took Geralt by the hand and led him into the neighboring room, where an alembic and a cluster of vials and bowls were situated on a tall wooden table.

“Quickly! Roll up your sleeve. I need your blood,” she said, fumbling through a black embroidered clutch.

“My blood?” He asked, stopping at the doorframe. “Why?”

“I don’t have time to explain!” She retorted over her shoulder, cursing as she turned the clutch upside down and spilled the ingredients onto the table.

“Fine,” Geralt replied with a huff, rolling up his sleeve obediently. He drew a small dagger from his belt and offered it to Philippa. “Sharp and sterile,” he said, taking a bit of pride in his preparation. “Always ready.”

She sighed, looking it over. “It will have to do. Come, we need a fair amount. Over here…”

He held out his arm, and she made an incision. Bright red droplets began to fill a glass vial through a funnel. It was a slow enough process to afford Philippa time to explain the scenario.

“I need your blood, Geralt, because mine didn’t work. Iorveth returned with the ingredients early this morning, and Cynthia and I set out to brew the potion. It requires blood - human, not elven - and I had hoped mine would suffice. Unfortunately, it lost its constitution when blended with the more volatile ingredients.”

“And mine’s a bit heartier. Makes sense. Only, _I’m not human_. Not anymore, at least.”

“Oh, poppycock! You’re as human as I am. It will work. It must… or we will lose her."

“Her pulse - you brought her out of the coma?”

“I had Cynthia prepare her while I brewed the antidote. As you know, it was a failure, which left the poor girl in a precarious situation. We can’t use the spells to put her into a coma again, her body can’t take it.”

“Fine, I get it. Have enough yet?” The highly-mutated coagulants in his blood made even intentional bloodletting an arduous process.

She glanced at the vial, frowned, huffed… then snatched it up. “It’ll have to do. Keep Saskia cool, calm her if you can. This shouldn't take but a minute or two.”

Returning to the bedroom, Saskia’s condition had worsened. Iorveth was stretched over her, holding both her convulsing arms in place, while Cynthia - the “tethered” sorceress - held both open hands above Saskia’s forehead, muttering a spell repeatedly.

“Don’t just stand there! _Do something_ , Gwynbleidd,” Iorveth said through gritted teeth, his forehead sweating as profusely as Saskia’s.

He tried casting Axii, but it had no noticeable effect. Whatever enchantment Cynthia was using clearly overpowered it. Instead, he relieved Iorveth, clamping down on Saskia’s arms with his powerful grip. He was immediately impressed with her strength - for a woman of unexceptional size and build, she was remarkably difficult to restrain.

Philippa entered in a hurry, carrying with her a small glass bottle with a brown liquid.

“Stop, Cynthia,” she commanded. “I must paralyze her so I can administer the antidote, but once that is done, we must act quickly. Do you understand?” The apprentice nodded. Philippa continued. “I will hand you the bottle, and you must immediately apply the contents to her vein. There can be no delays. Witcher, you may release her.”

Geralt did as he was told, backing up slowly. Philippa set the bottle down, waved both her hands and spoke a spell in a loud, commanding tone. Geralt’s medallion jumped from his chest, and Saskia went limp, as if dead. Geralt listened closely - even her heart and lungs had been drawn to a halt. Philippa hurriedly sipped a gulp of the potion in the bottle, then handed it to Cynthia, who had just made an incision into Saskia’s left forearm. As she poured the remainder of the antidote into the wound, the senior sorceress bent over Saskia’s face, placing her lips directly onto her patient’s, and transferred her portion of the antidote. She then pinched Saskia’s nose and began breathing air into her lungs in a slow, steady rhythm. Geralt had seen quite a few types of spell-breaking rituals, but this was a novel experience, and, in light of the scene he stumbled upon between Philippa and Cynthia, a curious one.

After a few dozen artificial breaths, Saskia’s heart began beating, and her lungs began taking in air on their own. Philippa stepped back and cast another spell, and after about two minutes of calm, Saskia began coughing violently, sending brown mucus droplets in spatters around her. Her heart accelerated quickly, and her eyes opened, darting to and fro wildly.

“Wh… what…” He voice muttered, scratchy and weak.

“Shh…” Philippa said, placing a hand on Saskia’s forehead. “You were poisoned. We nearly lost you.”

Saskia coughed dryly and attempted to swallow to moisten her throat. “The war?”

“Still on hold because of the fog,” Philippa answered. The young general closed her eyes with a look of relief.

“You didn’t think we’d go to war without the Virgin of Aedirn, did you?” Iorveth said with a twinkle in his eye. Saskia smiled back.

“Iorveth. Good that you are here. And… Geralt? Why am I not surprised?” She tried to sit up, faltering quickly and crashing back to the bed. “We must resume our summit… make preparations-“

“Sleep, child,” Philippa said, gently, brushing her palm over Saskia’s eyelids. “All in good time. For now, rest is the most important thing. We will leave you to it.” She turned with one raised eyebrow, motioning at the onlookers to disperse. Geralt was the last out the door, and just as he went to close it, Saskia spoke up.

“Geralt? A word, if I may…” He walked over to the bed, and she reached out her hand to grasp his. “I… cannot put into words how grateful I am to you,” she said, an exhausted look on her furrowed brows. “Fate has clearly brought you across my path… yet again.”

“Glad I could help."

“Have you found her yet? Your sorceress?”

“No.”

“And yet you came to my aid? Thank you, Geralt. If you would consider… hear me out…” She swallowed hard again, her voice still hoarse. “Stay here with us to defend the city. This fog will pass sooner or later, and when it does, we will need warriors like you - those with selfless, noble hearts… and with skill in combat.”

“I appreciate the invitation, but witchers don’t take sides in wars. We don’t delve into politics. Our code forbids it.”

“I understand, of course,” she replied, closing her eyes for a long moment before continuing. “It does, however, permit actions taken to defend the defenseless…”

“There’s an army of peasants who were ready to lynch their own prince for you. And Iorveth’s archers. You’re far from defenseless.”

“What we’re building here, Geralt, it must survive. You’ve seen how fractured our world is, how such hatred has been sown in the hearts of the races toward each other. This is our chance to make something better, something… for those who live beyond us to inherit.”

“And a chance for a peasant to become queen…”

“No. Not at all. You see, that is the difference. I have no desire to rule in a palace, with masses living in a squalor, supporting my luxury with the sweat of their brow. That is precisely the sort of country we’re trying to break away from.”

“These people are only an army because of you. What would you do - liberate them and just disappear?”

“Of course not! I love them. I would die for them. They are my countrymen - not just the humans. The dwarves, the elves. Once there is peace, I want nothing more than to hand the weight of ruling to those better suited for it, those who would treat them with respect, and listen to their wishes.”

“Those like Philippa?”  
She sighed and closed her eyes again. “Do you still distrust her?”

“Yes. And so should you.”

“Oh, witcher. How do you manage life with such a contemptible view of everyone?”

“I manage not to get poisoned.”

“Give her a chance. And please… at least consider making an exception to your code of neutrality for Vergen. If not for me, then for the cause.”

The witcher forced a smile. “If I did, I wouldn’t be the honorable man you make me out to be.”

“You would be more,” she answered. “I should sleep.”

“Rest well.”

Philippa began speaking before Geralt had reached the bottom of the stairs. “You really should heed her advice, you know… trust or not, I do keep my word.”

“Will you stop doing that?” He said gruffly, folding his arms.

“Reading your mind? When it’s an open book, and such interesting content… no, I dare say I cannot. I can see why Yennefer always found your company so… amusing.”

“Do you have a point, or do you just enjoy irritating me?”

“I know where to find Triss. In general, at least. Though you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“I rarely like anything you have to say. Where is she?”

“Across the mist. I picked up an echo. Somewhat recent, but… well, to be honest, I don’t quite know why I can’t see something more up to date. It could be that she’s reentered the fog and is somehow being concealed. Or… she may be dead. Either way, you should forget about her and focus on helping us defend the city. Chasing her at this point is a fool’s errand.”

“Mark it on the map,” he said coldly, eyes narrowed, jaw locked.

She sighed, eyebrows raised in disapproval. “Somehow I knew you’d say that. Very well. I shall mark the point of her last known location for you, and I shall enchant an amulet for you to wear as protection from the fog. It won’t repel the wraiths, but it should keep you from suffocating in it - provided you don’t linger there.”

“That’s awfully generous. And what strings are attached?”

“Strings?” She replied, leaning back and placing a hand on her chest in poorly-feigned indignation. “Nothing of the sort. I did offer to help find her, after all. However… while you’re on the other side, should you find yourself close enough to survey Henselt’s camp and bring back word of their battle-readiness…”

“Uh-huh. There it is.”

“Waste not, want not, witcher. I shall bring you the items forthwith.”


	15. Through the Gauntlet

Geralt wore the crystalline amulet around his neck, next to his witcher’s medallion. Before he’d even made it past the city gate, the rhythmic clanking of the two against one another exhausted his patience, and he placed the magical stone in his shirt pocket. He was leery of walking into the fog - which was visibly denser now - with only a bauble to protect him, but he had no choice. Triss’s life was on the line. Besides, he’d been saved by an enchanted amulet before, one given by a similarly-talented sorceress with similarly duplicitous motives - he just didn’t remember it.

The magical fog, now a deep grey, was less than an hour’s walk from the edge of the Scoia’tael camp, and though it was still mid afternoon by the time Geralt reached it, it felt like dusk once inside. The initial wisps of malodorous air quickly crescendoed into a dense cloud, which tickled the lungs and burned in the eyes like saltwater. One would think the thickness of the air would make it easier to sneak through undetected. The wraiths of the battlefield didn’t hunt by sight, however; it didn’t take them long to realize they had a visitor.

A mostly-intact soldier reached Geralt first, easily dispatched by the swipe of a silver sword. Next came a skeleton bearing the remains of an aedirnian uniform, flanked by two half-rotten pikemen and an unarmed medic. He weaved, dodged, thrust, slashed, and dropped the trio in short order. Wave after wave began to assault him, slowing his progress as he moved generally northward following Philippa’s directions. He parried blow after lethargic blow, oddly invigorated by the opportunity to put his synapses and muscles to use. Unfortunately, the mild euphoria brought on by violence was short-lived. It evaporated in an instant once he spotted a draug approaching, replaced instead by a witcher’s typical cold, emotionless battle logic. This particular amalgamation was even taller than the one he’d faced when rescuing Stennis and Saskia, comprised not only of armor pieces, but also elements of siege devices metal horse barding.

“Taedh éigean marw, vatt’ghern,” the draug said in a hissing, breathy voice that took the witcher off guard. “Taedh éigean uniade ninnau.”

“So now you can talk, huh? That’s just great.” He quickly surveyed the horizon - no other wraiths were approaching. Either they had been extinguished, or even _they_ were afraid to approach the monstrosity.

“Taedh éigean uniade ninnau,” it repeated as it stomped forward with noisy clanking and grating. Geralt didn’t fully understand the dialect of elder speech, but it roughly translated to “you must join us in death.” As he was disinclined to acquiesce to the draug’s request, he charged forward, beginning with a feint and adjusting quickly to cast Aard, which opened the creature’s stance to a counterattack. He struck at the elbow joint with the tip of his sword, but the draug anticipated his strategy and easily deflected the blow, striking with such force that Geralt stumbled backward, despite parrying with perfect form. He rolled away to escape a downward slash from a huge makeshift blade, itself over six feet long and comprised of a handful of rusted weapons fuzed together. Regaining his footing, he tried a different tactic - casting Igni first, then rushing in. The flames parted off of the plate metal and dissipated, failing to even draw the draug’s attention. Geralt's strike rang true, cleaving a dirty, snail-encrusted helmet with a loud screeching sound, but it did nothing to slow the beast, and only a well-timed pirouette saved the witcher from having his own cranium bisected.

The composition of this latest draug left no obvious seams to be attacked, so Geralt switched to his steel sword and focused his efforts on tearing through the armored knee joints to gain access to the enchanted - and vulnerable - material inside. It was a repetitive process - lunge, slash, dodge, thrust, roll to evade, regain footing, repeat. The draug adapted to his strategy, swinging his heavy sword at a different angle and drawing blood from Geralt’s bicep. Unconcerned, the witcher continued to hack away until at last, he had his opportunity -a gap in the armor shell about the size of a child’s palm, just above the knee joint on the humanoid mass of reclaimed metal.

Geralt’s next lunge was different - he contorted his body at an unexpected angle, drew his silver sword with his left hand, and jabbed its tip into the gap. The monster recoiled, hissing wildly, but didn’t fall. After a quick recovery, the draug landed a fist on the side of Geralt’s head, sending him reeling with blurred vision and a powerful ringing in his ears. He leaned, dodged and retreated for a moment until the world stopped spinning, then mounted one last attack. Hopping to the side at just the last moment to avoid a downward strike, he cast Igni again, aiming right at the opening he’d attacked earlier. This time, the effect was wildly different. The fluid-like gas inside ignited, turning every seam in the crudely-constructed mass a bright orange. Three seconds later, the witcher was knocked off his feet as the draug exploded, sending metal shrapnel flying in every direction.

Geralt took a moment to catch his breath and dress his wound, then continued his journey across the large battleground, unmolested by wraiths the rest of the way. Whether due to attrition or in response to the draug slaying, the ghostly soldiers tended to keep their distance when he approached, and the few who attacked were quickly dispatched. He wandered through the fog for hours, but finally reached the thinning-out point on the other side of the field, stepping out of the dark cloud into the similarly dark night sky near the river.

The smell of fresh blood was heavy in the air - Geralt followed it over a steep incline and into a neighboring ravine, where a handful of bodies were scattered on the arid soil. The slain men were all dressed in the Empire’s black uniforms, and were littered with crossbow bolt wounds, along with the occasional gash from a sword. Judging by the relative lack of stiffness in their limbs, the soldiers hadn’t been dead more than an hour or two at most.

Although the Empire and the northern kingdoms were technically on peaceful terms, the sight of a group of “black ones” slain on a northern hillside wasn’t altogether noteworthy or troubling. What _was_ deeply noteworthy and troubling to the witcher was the unmistakable scent of Triss Merigold which still hung in the air. Faint as it was, Geralt was certain Triss had been in the area recently. He searched each body for clues, and upon inspecting the third cadaver, his medallion began vibrating consistently. He patted the body down and discovered the source of the magical disturbance. Tucked into an inner pocket of the soldier’s bloodied gambeson was a small figurine carved out of a green stone resembling jade. The humanoid statuette was about four inches tall, with primitive, androgynous features and a density which made it heavy for its diminutive size.

The sound of approaching footsteps reached Geralt’s ears as he tucked the figurine into a small satchel on his belt. He quickly took cover behind a rock formation, unsure whether the dozen or so humanoids approaching were friends or foes. A male voice whispered indiscernible orders, and the group split up, though the rocky walls of the ravine made pinpointing the direction of the sounds difficult. Geralt slowly drew his steel sword as the footsteps neared, took in a deep breath in preparation to strike… but then released it and stepped into the moonlight slowly.

“Vernon Roche. Should’ve known it would be you out here,” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. The two groups of Blue Stripes converged, with their leader out front.

“That’s one hell of a nose on you, Geralt,” Roche said, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Or have you also learned to read minds, too?”

“Something you should know about me - I’m old-fashioned. Is this your handiwork?” He gestured toward the dead bodies nearby.

“It is,” the commander acknowledged with pride. “Caught the bastards trying to sneak through here, though I don’t know what they were doing in that damned fog. When we questioned them, they attacked us. As you can see, it didn’t turn out well for them.” His expression changed suddenly, as if it had just dawned on him that Geralt was also near the fog’s border. “By the way, what are _you_ doing in the fog? Running errands for your new Scoia’tael friends?”

“What’s wrong, Roache? Are you jealous?”

“More like suspicious.”

“I’m looking for Triss - the same reason I sailed here with them instead of with you. One of the sorceresses in Vergen tracked her to this location, but by the time I got here, she was gone. You didn’t happen to see her with the Nilfgaardians, did you?”

“Triss? No. Though, several of them got away. It’s possible they could’ve taken her.”

“Any idea where they were headed?”  
“Back to their camp, no doubt,” Roche said, gesturing behind him. “The Black Ones have a small outpost on the far side of Henselt’s camp, atop the bluffs. Their ambassador, has had his forked tongue whispering into Henselt’s ear since they arrived. I don’t like it, Geralt. I don’t trust either one of them.”

“Neither do I.”

“Say, if you’ve tracked Triss down… any luck finding Letho, or have you already given up your search? That was, after all, the only reason I spared you…”  
“I’m a man of my word, Vernon. I haven’t stopped looking. I know he landed on the other side of the mist, and that he entered it a few days ago. No trail to follow beyond that. How about you?”

Roche reached into his pocket and drew out two bronze medallions in the shape of serpents. “We’ve cornered him, of that much I’m certain.”

Geralt’s eyebrows lifted. “Serrit and Auckes?”

“Don’t know their names, but they were witchers, both of them. And tough sons of bitches, I’ll give ‘em that.”

Despite the circumstances, he couldn’t escape a sense of grief at the evidence of two more witchers meeting their end, especially when there were so few left in the world. “How did they die?”

“They tried to assassinate Henselt as he slept in his tent. Snuck past his guards with ease, but they didn’t anticipate the sorceress being in the king’s chambers. She burned one to a pile of ashes. The other escaped, but he was wounded. I hunted the bastard down, followed him through a series of caves under the ravines. Lost two of my men in the process, but even a witcher can’t overcome superior numbers.”

“I guess they got what was coming to them. Any sign of Letho? Was the cave a hideout?”

“The three of them had holed up there at some point, that much was clear. As for Letho, he was nowhere to be found.”

“Of course. Tell me this, then - the sorceress who killed the first assassin - was it Síle de Tansarville?”

“Yes. Is that important?”

“Very. She knows more than she lets on. Did you know she hired mercenaries to track Letho down on the other side of the mist? Sent them right to the location where he and Triss came through the portal… with orders to kill them both.”

“Are you serious? Damnit!” He growled. “She knew this whole time? If she’d only told us…“

“Where is she now?”

“Gone. She left this morning.” Roche stroked his face for a moment, deep in thought. “You know… she keeps showing up wherever Letho is, and she wants him dead - and apparently Triss as well - but she wants to keep it a secret. What the hell is she after?”

“I don’t know, but if she’s already moved on-“

“Our fugitive has as well,” Roche interrupted, “or he’s dead.”

“Right now I’m most concerned with Triss. Can you point me to the nilfgaardian camp?”

“What do you plan to do - take on the regiment single-handedly?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“You’ll have no help from me, witcher. I’m already up to my eyeballs in shit. Killing a scouting patrol is one thing; attacking an embassy is another altogether.”

“I didn’t ask for help, only for directions. Don’t worry - I’m sneakier than you.”

Roche shrugged. “Very well. It’s your funeral. When you get near the main camp, there will be a large creek. Head west. You’ll find a series of caves in the area. Several terminate in a ravine near the bluffs. Should be an easy climb from there.”

“That’s… a surprisingly detailed description…”

“I’m an intelligence officer, remember? You didn’t think I was only here to spy on _Henselt’s_ side of the negotiations, did you?”

“Careful spinning all those plates, Vernon. You may reach the point where you can’t keep them all going at once. One last question before I go: any idea how the battle preparations are coming along on this side of the mist?”

“Henselt’s mage has been fixated on lifting the curse for days. I’ve no idea what progress he’s made, but I know this much - the moment it dissipates, the kaedweni’s will march.”

“That helps. Thanks.”

“You don’t… intend on fighting alongside the dragonslayer, do you?”

“Witchers don’t take sides. I just want to make sure I’m not trapped inside the city when they lock the gates. Take care, Vernon.”

“Same to you, witcher. Hopefully our paths will meet again - over Letho’s corpse.”

The creek and caves were just as Roche described. Though the subterranean passages forked and branched excessively, Geralt eventually found his way to an opening downhill from the nilfgaardian camp. The slope was steep enough to necessitate more climbing than walking, but at length, he came to the outskirts of the camp. Two guards were posted a full sixty yards or more apart, which was enough for him to slip through undetected. He hid himself behind a large rock formation and drew in a deep breath through his nostrils. The air was full of discernible scents - the oily hair of a man who had gone too long without bathing, the lingering smoke from a now-extinguished fire, the thick, fishy musk of the nearby river inlet where a black-sailed vessel was moored - but evidence of Triss was not among them. As the witcher pondered this surprising discovery, the sound of approaching footsteps from several directions at once stole his attention. Muttering profanities under his breath, he rose carefully to his feet, scanning the hillside for an effective escape path. The footsteps were closing in quickly, and seemed to be converging directly on him. Wishing to avoid a fight with an entire embassy, Geralt took off running toward the river, but was struck from behind by some type of spell, which caused all his muscles to convulse wildly. He fell to the ground with a painful thud, quivering helplessly while the black-uniformed guards disarmed him, bound his hands, and began dragging him up the hill toward the camp.

———————————————————

“Ah, witcher. I’m… _disappointed_ to see you,” ambassador Shilard said, eyes still sleepy from his midnight awakening. “And here, I thought that your kind was bound to neutrality.” He nodded toward the guards who held the incapacitated witcher upright, and they began searching his body. One of the men pulled the jade figurine out and handed it to the middle-aged politician, whose close-cropped hair formed a white halo around a bald, splotchy scalp. He grinned as he rotated it in his hands for a moment, then gave it to another middle-aged man -presumably a mage, judging by the staff he carried. “My associate here told me you were nearby,” Shilard continued. “What a stroke of luck! I was afraid my inept associates had lost miss Merigold after that unfortunate incident with the temerian renegades, but here - you’ve gone to the trouble of delivering her to us.”

“Just wait until we decompress you,” the mage said to the figurine with a look of smug satisfaction. “Oh, the stories you’ll tell…”

“What are you talking about?” Geralt asked groggily. “Where is she?”

“Right here,” the mage said, tapping his knuckles against the hard surface of the statuette. “All bundled into a nice, portable package. Ha! You had her within your grasp, and you didn’t even know it. What intrigue…”

“What do you want with her?” The witcher grunted, struggling in vain against the restraints binding his hands behind his back.

“That’s none of your concern,” the mage replied casually.

“Why not tell him?” Shilard said with a shrug. “He may be a fool, but at least he’s an honorable one. Your sorceress friend, master witcher, is a traitor - both to Temeria and to her own order. She’s going to help us root out the rest of her co-conspirators, once she’s, uh… what is it you call it - _de-compressed_? So, you see, you may have failed to stop one assassination, but you’ve succeeded in preventing a good many more, I suspect. May that truth bring you comfort in your final moments.”

“You’re lying,” Geralt said defiantly, feeling the stupor of the mage’s spell waning.

Shilard’s eyebrows pulled together in a look of mild pity. “I’d expect you to say as much. You’re not the first man to fall prey to the bosom of a deceitful woman. I’ve seen my fair share of political intrigue, and I can assure you, more battles are won and policies shaped between bedsheets than on battlefields. But, alas, now that I’ve collected my final conspirator, it’s time for me to be on my way. I bid you adieu, master witcher, and I do apologize for the necessity of ending your life. Give him a warrior’s death,” he instructed the soldiers restraining Geralt. “Remove his head cleanly, and toss the body over the cliffs. We have no time for burials.”

Geralt’s mind began racing as the soldiers dragged him back outside the tent into the now-cloudy moonlight. He’d often considered what type of death he’d have, prognosticating at length with Triss about everything from an arch-griffin’s talons, to a slizard’s spiked tail, to a swordsman more accomplished than he. The witcher didn’t know where or when he’d meet his fate, but he knew it was not at the hands of two nilfgaardian soldiers who looked barely old enough to grow facial hair.

The young men were escorting Geralt warily, even though they still believed him to be discombobulated by the mage’s spell. He could feel the cold tip of a blade under the back of his ribcage as they slowly walked toward the edge of the camp. After running through a dozen or so scenarios, there was only one which didn’t end inexorably in death. He swallowed hard, and set it into motion.

“Do me one final honor, comrades,” he mumbled, taking care to slur his speech so as not to alert them to his recovery from the spell. “Let me die facing my home - Kaer Morhen.”

There was silence for a moment, as the soldiers exchanged a look and shrugged. “Are we supposed to know where that is?” One of them replied in a thick southern accent.

“To the north,” Geralt said, gesturing with the crown of his head “across the river. Do it at the clifftop. That way, I can smile upon my fatherland as I die, and you won’t have to carry my body up the hill.”

“… very well,” the young soldier replied, pivoting toward the top of the bluffs, which rose nearly forty feet above the wide, fast-moving waters of the Pontar river. Geralt waited for the right moment, then feigned stumbling, falling to the coarse, arid soil. As soon as the soldier with the sword trained on him knelt to pick him up, Geralt threw his head back, bashing the captor in the nose, and leapt to his feet. He took off in a dead sprint toward the edge of the cliff, hoping his recollection of the landscape was accurate. At the very last inch of rock, he vaulted himself forward, free-falling for a handful of heart stopping seconds before plunging feet-first into the warm, rushing current.

———————————————————

The moon had nearly disappeared below the horizon by the time the exhausted, waterlogged witcher flopped his way onto the south bank of the river. Having expended all his stamina, he lay there for a full five minutes, coughing up water and gasping as deeply as his still-sore ribs would permit. The current was stronger than he’d calculated, and with most of his strength focused on keeping his head above water, it had carried him a half a mile downstream.

Once he’d regained his breath, Geralt struggled to his feet, cursing and groaning as he stumbled along the river’s edge, hoping to reach the nilfgaardian ship before it set sail. Upon reaching the base of the cliff where he’d jumped, the vessel was nowhere to be found. The only hope of reaching Triss in time to prevent whatever fate awaited her at the hands of the emperor’s investigators was to reach Philippa and convince her somehow to teleport him there. The thought alone turned his stomach sour, but he had no other recourse.

Geralt turned south, keeping a wide margin around the kaedweni camp, and painstakingly hiked back to the edge of the enchanted mist, arriving around dawn. His hands were still bound tightly behind him, and he had no weapons. His only hope was to simply outrun whatever opponents beset him along the way back to Vergen. Not wanting to waste any precious time, he took off running into the mist, only realizing too late that he’d made a critical mistake. The magically-infused air, which had previously irritated his eyes and nose, now burned like fire, spreading quickly into his lungs. He stumbled to the ground, his chest quivering in desperate, spasmodic bursts of inhalation, while the world around him began to blur and rotate haphazardly. As he lay on his side, slowly losing consciousness, he noted the witcher’s medallion, glistening on the muddy ground in front of his face. What he didn’t see was Philippa’s protective amulet, which he lost at some point during his river escape.

 _Damn_ , he thought to himself, as the world went dark and confusing. _Better than an execution, I suppose, but still… not the way I envisioned it. Not the way a witcher should go_.


	16. Vergen Besieged

Dying was less mysterious to Geralt of Rivia than to almost anyone else. He’d actually done it once before, and though he had serious lapses in long-term memory, he recalled that sensation fairly well. Death in each of its iterations certainly had unique qualities, but there were some experiences that were - or at least, should have been - common to everyone. Geralt had tasted these commonalities before, which is why he recognized what _not-dying_ felt like. After floating in a delirious, thoughtless void, the sudden, immense weight constricting his chest was rather un-death-like. Equally unlike dying was the rush of wind that tousled his hair wildly, consistently blowing for a good fifteen minutes or more (if his sense of time in this half-alive-half-dead state could be trusted). In the deep recesses of the witcher’s mind, some light was still on, even in the mental fog of the unconscious. He pondered with great curiosity the pressure around his midsection, the whipping wind, and the feeling of weightlessness as his arms and legs flailed like a rag doll, swaying to and fro without his consent. _Not dead. Not yet_ , he concluded. _Can’t die yet. Have to find Yen. Have to find Ciri…_

———————————————————

An apple falls to the soft padding of lush green blades below, drawing the slightest smile out of the raven-haired woman. She lazily reaches over, plucks it from the ground, and takes a bite. A tiny stream of juice escapes from the corner of her curved lips - liquid that she deliberately leaves there, as if inviting assistance in cleaning it up. The witcher responds as expected, leaning in and kissing it off tenderly. The woman shares a few bites, then takes a few more, then tosses the half-eaten fruit carelessly overhead. She isn’t concerned with it - there are hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands more, ripe for the picking. She rolls over and gently lays her folded arms and head on the witcher’s chest. She says something about a girl, though the details are just blurry enough to obscure their meaning. She’s sad. She misses the girl. The Witcher misses her equally - perhaps more, if such a thing were possible. Together, they wonder where or _when_ this girl might be, and if they’ll ever see her again.

Eventually their wondering fades into drowsiness. He falls asleep, and the slow rise and fall of his chest has a soothing effect on the woman. She joins him in slumber. Both are naked, and perfectly comfortable that way. Why wouldn’t they be? There’s no one else in the world but the two of them. They could have slept for hours, had it not been for the frost. They awake with a start, their alert, rapid breaths visible in the piercing cold air. A warble of distorted sky, a flash of light, a thunderous crack, and suddenly, they’re no longer alone. They’re running, fleeing, seeking weapons to defend themselves. It’s all too sudden. There’s a struggle, an iron fist against a face softened by leisure. The woman is torn from the witcher’s grasp. He screams, he rages, he kills, first with his bare hands, then with the weapons of his slain foes… but she’s gone. He has to find her. It’s all that matters now. He has to find Yennefer.

———————————————————

“Are you awake, then? Oh, good!” The voice said, at first distant and nearly indiscernible, as if heard underwater. Geralt’s head bounced painfully against the rough boards underneath him, responding to every rock and divot on the ground as squeaking wheels ferried his weight across the uneven landscape. He tried to open his eyes, but saw nothing.

“I’m not dead, so…”

“You’re on your way to Vergen,” the voice answered. He felt like he should recognize it, but although it was familiar in a way, it was also very foreign. “I found you, near-dead. It’s a good thing, too. You wouldn’t have lasted much longer on your own.”

“The fog… I was choking on it.”

“You shouldn’t have tried to cross it without protection. Philippa and your friends became concerned when you didn’t return.”

“How long…”  
“You left two days ago, though I’m not sure when you walked back into the fog.”

“How did I get out? And… wait - who are you?”

The voice hesitated, responding in a slow and calculated tone. “… a friend.”

“A friend who has an amulet of protection?”

“The fog has been lifted, Geralt. Henselt’s army is mobilizing to march on Vergen. They will arrive one day from now. You must help defend it.”

“No. Witchers are-“

“Neutral. Yes, I know. However, I also know that you sidestep your code when doing so becomes necessary to defend the defenseless.”

“Sounds like you know a lot about me, but I know nothing about you. Who are you? Tell me.”

“You don’t remember me, but you saved my life once… before it began, actually. My father spoke very highly of you, of your honor. I have seen he was not mistaken. A life for a life, Geralt of Rivia. I am simply returning the favor.”

“If you won’t tell me _your_ name, tell me who your father is. Maybe I’ll remember him.”

The voice went silent for a long time, as the boards beneath Geralt’s throbbing head continued to bump and rattle.

“… his name was Villentretenmerth,” the voice replied with a somewhat wistful quality, “but you may recall him as Borch Three-Jackdaws.”

The name sent a sudden jolt of memories through the witcher’s mind. He saw many images, layered upon one another, as if all at once. Snow-capped mountains. Competing hunting parties. A brush with death, narrowly saving the sorceress Yennefer. Relational tension - vexing in its intensity. A golden dragon, a slain mother, an un-hatched egg…

“You’re… a dragon?”  
“So you do remember, then?”

“A bit. Was that you at La Valette castle?”

“Yes… that was I,” she replied with a hint of remorse. “I was not altogether myself… it’s difficult to explain. I did not recognize you at the time. I apologize for my actions toward you.”

“Why are you taking me to Vergen? You do realize their leader is known as the ‘dragonslayer’…”

“Come, Geralt. You don’t believe that story any more than I do. I am for Saskia’s cause just as you should be - because this world is inhospitable to those like us, those whose kinsmen are fading away from the earth. We are outcasts wherever we sojourn. Upper Aedirn will be a place where terms like ‘freak,’ ‘beast,’ and ‘non-human’ no longer have meaning, where sentient beings of all kinds are treated with the respect they deserve.”

“You don’t really believe that do you?” He fired back, trying to move around, but finding himself unable to. “You’ve lived a short time, mistress dragon. Sixteen, eighteen years, if I remember correctly. Take it from someone who’s walked the earth as an oddity for a century - ostracizing those who are different and casting the blame for life’s hardships on them isn’t new. It’s woven into the fabric of society. A warrior queen with a idealistic dream won’t be able to change it.”

“We will never know if we never try,” she said, matter-of-factly. “You will fight alongside the resistance. This is fated. I have a sense of it.”

“Is that so?” He asked skeptically.

“Do you doubt it? If you recall, my father knew many things, even to the point of predicting the paths of fate yet to be unfolded. Sadly, I failed to inherit the full measure of his wisdom, but I see glimpses, approximations… I hear whispers.”

“And they tell you I’ll fight for Saskia and her dwarves?”

“They tell me you will fight to defend those important to you, just as you risked death to save the sorceress Triss Merigold.”

His heart quickened at the reminder. Triss was in the hands of the empire, and Geralt was another day removed from finding and freeing her.

“Your heart aches for her,” the dragon said, with a flavor of curiosity in her voice. “You do love her… although she is not the only one you ache to be reunited with.”

His pulse now sped to a fevered pace. He tried again to move, to look at the dragon, but could neither see nor move anything.

“What do you know of them? Tell me! Please…”

“I can see only in _glimpses_ , sir Geralt, as I explained. However, in gratitude for your efforts alongside the resistance, I shall tell you what I can. There are three women dear to your heart, whom love has bound you to, each in their own way. All three yet live. One is in the grasp of an enemy once thought to be an ally. One is an ally of one once thought to be an enemy. One believes herself to be safe, yet will soon stumble into terrible peril.”

“Where are they?”

“I cannot say. I have told you all I know. You must rest, for your body is in a deep consciousness which I can only speak to for so long without risk to your health. Rest now, witcher. Regain your strength. You will need it soon.”

Geralt felt a tingle in his skull, as though a warm blanket had been removed from his mind. The sudden cold prickled his thoughts like a thousand tiny needles. An immeasurable heaviness descended upon him, and the world went dark and numb.

———————————————————

“Wake up, Geralt! Quickly now… are you listening? Get up! You must get up at once…”

This female voice was easily recognizable. Philippa Eilhart. Geralt forced his eyes open, quickly adjusting his pupils to the relatively bright indoor light. He was lying on a bed in Philippa’s home - the same bed Saskia had been on when he left to search for Triss.

“Look at me! Can you focus? Are you listening?” Philippa said, snapping her fingers inches from his face.

“I can hear. What-“

“Henselt’s army is _at the gate_ ,” the sorceress interrupted. “They marched through the night, and caught us at a disadvantage. I need you to buy me time. Understand? Stall them! I had Cynthia dress you, though we’re short on swords. There’s a pickaxe by the door. Take it and get to the wall before we’re both cut down.”

“Wait… Cynthia-“

Philippa left in a hurry, ignoring the witcher’s words. He sat up for a moment, rotating his stiff shoulders, then rose to his feet and descended the stairs. Waiting by the door was an iron pickaxe, slightly rusted with age. He took it by the rough wooden handle and rushed outside. The fortress city of Vergen was in a state of pandemonium, its residents scurrying around like ants after an anthill’s been kicked over. A trio of dwarves nearly knocked him over as they rushed toward the wall with kettles cradled in their arms. A man and woman were arguing sharply about who would take their children and flee through the southern gate. An elf with long, black hair in braids was partitioning out steel-tipped arrows to a crowd of impatient archers. Geralt felt out of place standing there, still dazed, armed only with a mining tool. He had no idea where to go or who to talk to about helping, so for a moment, he merely stood and watched. The thunderous roar of several thousand footsteps approaching quickly snapped him out of his stupor.

The witcher pushed through the crowd to the top of the outer wall, where he could see just how bleak the situation was. Four companies of solders - each at least three hundred strong - marched ahead of an assortment of heavy siege weapons. They were already entering the steep-sloped canyon that led up to the outer gate. It was the perfect place to spring an ambush of hot oil, or boulders, or arrows, but the defenders of Vergen weren’t in place.

“To the wall! Oil to the wall!” A gruff voice shouted angrily. Geralt picked it out from the crowd with ease - it belonged to Yarpen Zigrin. “Get that ploughin’ oil over here _now_ , ya lazy laggards! The cock-suckers are right under us!”

He gesticulated wildly as dwarves frantically wiggled their way through the crowd, sloshing liquid black as tar on each other in their haste. Henselt’s army reached within three hundred yards, then broke rank and rushed forward, filling the canyon with the roar of a battle cry. They were met quickly by a volley of arrows from Iorveth’s Scoia’tael, but with about half of the archers still receiving their allotment of arrows, the effect was underwhelming.

“Ladders! Ladders are coming!” Yarpen shouted, pointing at the sea of uniforms below and dodging an upward-aimed arrow that nearly hit him in the face. “Get the oil! Weapons at the ready, lads!”

Twenty seconds later, the first kaedweni ladder clanked against the top of the outer wall, and was immediately doused in oil and set ablaze. Undaunted, another three popped up within sixty seconds, each receiving a similar treatment. All the while, arrows whizzed by in both directions, easily striking flesh in the tightly-compressed masses of soldiers. Those who had the misfortune to fall to the ground were immediately trampled by their own compatriots, lost in the undertow of momentum pressing the crowds toward each other. The kaedweni’s kept bringing ladders, and eventually they had too many to counteract. The elven archers couldn’t change their position to strike the climbers without opening themselves up to counterattacks, which left the burden of repelling the troops to those at the top of the wall, Geralt included.

Reluctantly, the witcher entered the fray, casting Aard at the top of one of the ladders, and sending the entire structure, along with its climbers, crashing down to the crowd below. Realizing the need to neutralize such a threat, a handful of archers released projectiles at Geralt from the base of the wall. He ducked under the stone ledge, crawling behind cover and springing back up, only to be beset by three kaedweni soldiers at once. He swung the pickaxe in a wide arc, narrowly blocking two sword strikes, and ducked under a third. Compared to the finely-honed blades he normally carried, the pickaxe was as lumbering and unwieldy as a heifer in a horse race. He was nearly too late to block the next attack, and only avoided being stabbed by leaning back and twisting his torso like a circus performer.A dwarf assisted him, running one of the assailants through from behind, and caused enough of a distraction for the witcher to go on the offensive. He kicked one soldier in the chest, then spun 180 degrees and swung downward with all the force he could muster. Even a well-placed block wasn’t enough to keep the iron tip of the tool from piercing both the man’s hardened leather helmet and skull, sinking three inches into the space behind his left eye socket. Geralt left the pickaxe embedded in his foe and stole his sword, turning back around just in time to block an off-balance strike and slash the attacker cleanly across the throat. “Neutral” or not, the battle had enveloped him.

Geralt worked his way back from the wall, all too aware that the life expectancy for the front line was dismal, and sought instead to neutralize those attackers who broke through the front line. He slashed and stabbed his way through several soldiers, who, despite their uniforms and armament, were untrained in proper sword fighting techniques. Quantity has a quality all its own, however, and eventually the relentless onslaught of bodies pushed the dense, shoulder-to-shoulder fighting back toward him. He beat off several waves before finding himself back to back with an ally. Once there was a momentary break in the motion, he turned to see Saskia herself swinging her glistening broadsword fiercely.

“What are you doing out here?” He shouted at her, now more concerned with covering her flank than with any kind of offense. “You should be holed up in the keep.”

“With Stennis and the nobles?” She shouted back, breathing heavily as she continued to swing her blade. “I’d sooner be run-through alongside my men than cower as they die defending me.”

“You’re going to get your wish,” he replied, casting Aard to give himself room to maneuver effectively.

“Not so. They’re thinning out,” she said, turning to look over her shoulder. It was a poor choice of timing. A soldier who had been on the ground sprang back up, swinging for Saskia’s throat. She threw her arm up at the last second, crying out in pain as his blade tore through her leather gauntlet. Before she could counter, the witcher swiped the man across the temple, dropping him instantly. He turned and saw that she was correct - the attackers faded from the front lines like a wave receding from the shore.

“They’re regrouping,” he said warily.

“I know,” she replied, panting and hissing in pain as she clutched the wound on her arm, which rained crimson droplets onto the stone wall.

“We have a minute - let me bandage that for you,” he offered. She recoiled, opening her mouth to object, but he was too fast, and had already taken hold of her arm to inspect the wound. It was then that the obvious struck him - something he immediately kicked himself for failing to notice days earlier. Her blood looked perfectly normal, but it smelled different - in a way that the slowly-repairing synapses in the memory center of his brain recognized. His hand froze, still clamped around her wrist, and he turned his eyes from the wound to her face. Her eyes met his, wide with fear. His narrowed, brows lowered in a knowing look. Hers softened, pleading with brows pulled together, as she shook her head, but her silent petition was ineffective. The witcher yanked on that wrist, pulling the young woman away from the regrouping crowd and around the corner of a tower.

“You’re the-“

“Yes!” She hissed in a half-whisper, eyes firing an intense warning to maintain discretion.

“ _Damnit_ , Saskia!” He grunted, releasing her arm and folding his disapprovingly. “What the hell are you doing out here with a sword? You could turn the tide of the battle singlehandedly.”

“Or kill my own men by mistake!” She countered passionately, still speaking in hushed tones. “You don’t understand, Geralt. I can very easily lose myself when I… _you know_. When I’m… _not_ myself. Besides, if they understood my true nature, all this would unravel. They need a leader to believe in, not a beast to fear.”

He began wrapping her arm with his belt, applying just enough pressure to staunch the bleeding without cutting off sensation to her hand. “Even your father in all his might was vulnerable in human form. You’re taking a terrible risk.”

She straightened her posture defiantly. “I am not afraid to die for my cause, witcher. Come, we must fight. The beast and the hunter, side by side. Your friend the bard would wet himself with excitement.”

He chuckled, adjusting his grip as another wave of soldiers approached, joined this time by the rhythmic thudding of a battering ram. “Let’s try and live through this, and we’ll tell him all about it.”

The dragon-turned-woman fought valiantly at the witcher’s side, as a dragon should be expected to, but the two of them could do nothing to prevent the battering ram from breaching the outer gate. A stream of soldiers poured through, overwhelming the men and dwarves defending the inner gate. The coalition forces retreated in a hurry, covered by a volley of arrows from Iorveth’s archers, and barred the inner gate behind them. The smaller gate, which formed the last line of defense for the city, was far less robust. The soldiers who had just retreated feverishly piled anything of weight behind it, bracing it for the eventual impact of Henselt’s battering ram.

“Damnit!” Saskia said under her breath, stealing a moment to inspect the commotion behind the inner gate. “It’s too soon!” She shoved her opponent back and took off running, retreating to the base of a small tower and waving a hand signal. Geralt followed, striking two soldiers down along the way. A dwarf atop the tower waved a dark blue flag, and moments later, the periodic volley from the Scoia’tael archers became a torrent of arrows. The first few rows of advancing men were cut down in an instant, boxed in helplessly by the wide, stone-walled channel between the two gates. At the behest of their commanders, another line took their place, falling a few paces closer, then another, and another after that. The losses were obscene, but the kedweni’s pushed on, one hard-fought inch at a time, until at last, the archers’ ammunition was exhausted.

“Geralt!” The dragon-general shouted. He rushed to her side. “Something’s happened to the dwarves at the north gate.” She pointed to a rectangular column next to the large gate, which had recently succumbed to the attackers. “Get to the gatehouse, wait for three blasts of the ram’s horn, then cut the rope on the far wall. Hurry!”

He didn’t take time to ask for clarification, dashing back along the top of the side wall of the channel toward the gatehouse. Rather than end any more lives, he took an agile approach, leaning, weaving, dodging and blocking his way toward the stone fortification. One final blast of Aard knocked two attackers (and unintentionally, one defender) off the wall and into the channel below, and he reached the base of the column. The iron door had been broken off its hinges - Geralt rushed past it, stepping over the bloodied corpses of the dwarves Saskia mentioned, and reached the upper room. Seeing no rope to be cut, he hurriedly scanned the low-ceiling, cube-shaped room, and found what looked like a trap door in the corner of the ceiling. There was no handle to be seen, so he resorted to brute force, taking a war hammer from the hands of one of the slain dwarves and bashing the square ceiling panel until daylight shone through. With effort, he lifted himself through the opening and stood on the wooden roof. Directly in front of him, hidden behind the three-foot-high stone railing, was a crank with a thick, woven rope descending through the middle of the wall. He crouched by the crank, sword in hand, and watched the battle below, waiting for his signal.

The kaedweni’s were at the inner gate, lobbing a cluster of arrows at anyone who popped their head over the wall as the battering ram slowly lumbered forward. An armored, wheeled cart also advanced behind it, flying the royal flag. Henselt himself had arrived to glory in his victory.

Saskia was nowhere to be seen, and outside of the occasional millstone or iron kettle tossed over the wall, the defense of the city had all but ceased. There was relative silence in the air as the ram reached the wall, its huge, iron capped cylinder drawn slowly back… then a thunderous crash, as it slammed against the door. The arched doorway buckled, shuddering as bits of rock and dust fell from the surrounding wall. It wouldn’t hold up to more than a handful of strikes. Fortunately, it wouldn’t need to. In the calm before the next strike, the sound of a horn rang through the stone corridor in three distinct blasts. Geralt did as he was instructed, striking the taut rope with all his might and cleaving it in two. With a rumble and a metallic roar, a colossal iron curtain unfurled like a giant sheet of chainmail in the doorway where the outer gate once stood. A trio of dwarves descended via ropes on either side, bolting the bottom of the curtain to the base of the doorframe before being cut down by the crowd of soldiers around them. Before the kaedwni’s could realize they’d been trapped, gallons of oil cascaded from the side walls, splashing over leather helmets and soaking into boots.

Amidst the mass confusion, Philippa Eilhart appeared at the top of the inner gate, waving her arms in a wide series of arcs. Geralt knew what was coming next, and fell flat against the wooden roof of the gatehouse just before a huge plume of fire descended from the sky, igniting the oil-soaked channel between the two gates, which now imprisoned nearly a thousand soldiers, along with their siegecraft. A sudden rush of hot air billowed over the stone ledge next to Geralt, after which he rose up to witness the carnage. Wails and groans mixed together in a chorus of horror, as men were broiled alive. Behind the metal curtain, the remainder of Henselt’s army routed, trampling one another as they retreated northward. Saskia joined Philippa atop the inner gate, shouting orders and pointing toward the armored cart ostensibly carrying Henselt and his advisors. A small company of elves rappelled to the flaming pit and extracted the monarch and his advisors, hoisting them up to safety as men writhed in agony on the stone floor below.

With the king secured, Saskia had mercy on the burning soldiers, motioning to Philippa, who began a second spell. Moments later, a cold, white mist fell on the flaming charnel house, extinguishing the fire. Archers appeared along the top of the walls, ready to put down any reprisal of hostilities, but the survivors in the channel had no fight left in them. Relieved that the battle was over, Geralt descended the gatehouse stairs, and inadvertently ran over a short woman who was in a hurry to climb up.

“Master Geralt! Saskia requests your presence at the keep,” she said, once she regained her footing.

The tired witcher heaved a long sigh and dropped his head, wiping blood and sweat from his brow. “Of course she does. I’m on my way.”

The proceedings were already underway when Geralt arrived in the conference room. Henselt and two well-dressed men stood at sword-point facing Saskia, Philippa and Cecil Burdon. Yarpen Zigrin and Iorveth stood nearby, arms crossed, motioning to Geralt when he entered.

“What more? Shall I bring you the moon as well?” The bearded king bellowed, scoffing with arms stretched wide, “Or perhaps a goose who lays golden eggs?”

“Total withdrawal and surrender,” Saskia repeated slowly. “It’s not a complicated request, king. Though you should have accepted my terms before your men were burned to ashes.”

Henselt folded his arms, grinning and shaking his head. “Do you mean to march on Ard Carraigh, then? I warn you, missy - a battle may be won by a witch’s trickery, but victory in war is not so easily stolen.”

“I could care less about your land and your castle,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Agree to my terms and you and your men will be free to return there.”

The king huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes. “ _Fine_. List your terms, oh lady general.”

Saskia clapped her hands, and a dwarf handed the king a sheet of parchment.

“In addition to retreat and surrender,” she said in a slow and measured tone, “you will appear at the summit in Loc Muine and formally acknowledge the free state of Upper Aedirn, fully independent.”

“Yes, yes, take your damned river valley. Am I free to go, _your ladyship_?”

Saskia’s countenance changed suddenly - eyes glazed, pupils dilated, cheeks and forehead unnaturally flat and emotionless. “I shall require one final thing before your departure,” she said. “The head of Dethmold the mage.

“Dethmold? Why? You wouldn’t deprive me of my court advisor… especially not when we’re set to appear together at the mages’ summit three days from now. Come now, surely we can make other arrangements…”

Geralt felt his medallion vibrate as Saskia responded. “Síle de Tansarville will now serve as your advisor.” He kept a straight face, though his mind immediately spun in a different direction. No one from Vergen had even mentioned her name, much less her strategic importance. He snuck a side glance at Iorveth, who’s face wore a quizzical look. Clearly he wasn’t privy to this plan either.

“Let’s be reasonable,” Henselt said, less confidently. “There’s no need to kill the man to replace his post-“

“I’ll have Dethmold’s head,” Saskia interrupted, lips curled and voice sinister, “or I’ll have yours. You have five seconds to decide. One…”

“By the gods, woman!”

“Two… three…”

“Alright, _alright_!” Henselt turned to one of the noblemen at his side. “Bring me the head of Dethmold. _Now_!”

There was an uncomfortable silence as the man rushed out of the room. Henselt looked sick to his stomach. Saskia stared at the humbled king stone-faced. Iorveth turned toward Geralt with a look of shocked surprise. Yarpen muttered something under his breath about one less kaedweni. The slightest hint of a smile crept over Philippa’s painted lips. Moments later, the nobleman returned, gasping and panting, and dropped a severed head, eyes still open, at Saskia’s feet. Geralt’s heart leapt within his chest - it was the face of the mage in Shilard’s tent.

———————————————————

“I’m telling you, something is very wrong, Gwynbleidd,” Iorveth began, pacing back and forth across Geralt’s modest room at the inn. “I know Saskia, better than most. Better than anyone. This is not like her. Her voice, her demeanor… her eyes look like she’s on fisstech, but ten minutes earlier they were normal. I don’t… I don’t know. You saw it as well, didn’t you? Tell me I’m not going mad.”

Geralt sat motionless in his chair, raising one eyebrow slowly. “I don’t think you know her as well as you _think_ you do.”

Iorveth froze, turning his head toward the witcher suddenly with intense, furrowed brows. “What do you mean? How much… what have you heard?”

“I… know who her father is,” Geralt answered after a slow exhale, taking care to be vague in case Iorveth didn’t know Saskia’s secret.

“Oh, that’s just _great_ ,” Iorveth lamented, rolling his eyes. “Who told you?”

“Her blood. The smell. It’s different… to a witcher. I knew her father, though only briefly.”

Iorveth lowered his voice, speaking with a grave tone. “Geralt, you mustn’t tell anyone. _Anyone_ -“

“I know. I won’t,” he interrupted. “But that aside… yes, I did notice how oddly she was acting, and I felt magical energy in the room right before she changed character.”

Iorveth’s lips curled disdainfully. “Philippa. That bitch… do you think she’s cast a spell over Saskia?”

“It’s possible. I’ve heard stories of such things, but on humans, not dragons.”

“So it was Philippa who wanted that mage dead? Why?”

“Protection,” Geralt answered. “He was working with the nilfgaardian ambassador, probably behind Henselt’s back. They’re hunting down sorceresses. Apparently there’s a cabal of them who’ve been meddling too deeply in politics.”

“Too deeply? What an absurd notion! Meddling in politics is all sorceresses do.”

“Well, these must’ve stepped on the wrong toes.”

“And how do you know all this?” Iorveth asked skeptically.

“I ran into them when I was looking for Triss. It’s a long story. Shilard has her, and I thought up until ten minutes ago that he had Síle, too, but clearly I was wrong.”

“Clearly,” Iorveth agreed. “So Síle and Philippa are working together somehow, and… she’s found a way to cast a spell to control Saskia’s mind?”

“It’s not a regular spell,” Geralt surmised, replaying the events in his mind. “Philippa didn't utter a word, didn’t form any signs…” he went silent for a moment, thinking through possibilities. “Wait - the ingredients for the antidote - what were they? Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember! Quebrith, salvia, datura, and the petals of a rosa thaesse.”

“A rose of remembrance? Those aren’t ingredients to heal the mind… they’re ones to _loosen_ the mind, to make it more pliable…”

“What are you saying? That the poisoning was staged?”

“It was real,” Geralt confirmed, “but I’m beginning to wonder if Stennis was framed. After all, it was Philippa who tasked me with investigating it. She even suggested the suspects.”

“Well, if that’s the case, her plan worked to perfection. Use Stennis to launch Saskia into leadership, seize control of her mind, then dispose of the prince to further establish her rule… all without getting her hands dirty.”

“You’re right - he’s probably in danger at this point. Where is Stennis now - still confined to his room?” Geralt asked.

“Did you not hear? During the commotion of the siege, a group of plebs broke through his security detail and lynched him.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“Damn.”

“Indeed.” Iorveth placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Well, I’ve heard enough. Time to kill a witch.”

“Not so fast. She can read minds, remember? We can’t just walk up and slit her throat. Besides, these are hunches, theories-“

“So what would you do, Gwybleidd? Leave Saskia at the mercy of that hag? We _must_ free her!”

“We will… but I need information from her first. Our best chance is to catch her while she’s sleeping.”

Iorveth exhaled sharply, glowering in silence for a moment. “Alright, then. We’ll take her while she sleeps, but in the meantime, I need to speak with Saskia, to see if there’s a way to warn her.”

“Bad idea.”

“I don’t really give a damn if it’s a bad idea. I’m going.”

Geralt followed Iorveth back to the keep, where a maid was dutifully mopping blood and spinal fluid from the stone floor.

“Looking for Lady Saskia, masters?” She asked, no doubt having overheard Iorveth asking every person on the way in to the inner room. “Alas, but you’ve just missed her! She left with the sorceress, not five minutes ago - stepped right through a glowing hole in the air. It was the oddest thing I've ever seen.”

The elf pounded his fist against the table. “Damnit! What now? Have you any idea where they might’ve gone?”

“We know where they’ll be in three days,” Geralt offered calmly. “Loc Muinne.”

“Yes… yes, that’s true. That could work.”

“The problem is, neither of us is on the guest list. You’re wanted for terrorism, and I am for regicide.”

“Come now, Geralt, a wanted poster’s never stopped soldiers like us. Help me liberate Saskia, and I’ll help you free Triss. After all, Shilard is sure to be there… and maybe even Letho, if he still has a desire to take crowned heads. I have a small ship an hour’s ride from here. It’s much swifter than the barge. If we make haste, the two of us could reach the city before then.”

“Alright, then. Let’s make haste.”


	17. Infiltration

Wispy clouds formed a sheer veil over the moon, permitting warbled white light to outline the cobblestone floor in the southeastern quadrant of Loc Muinne. The nilfgaardian ambassador glanced upward impatiently, tapping his foot and muttering under his breath.

“Shall we light a fire, my lord?” A soldier asked. “Perhaps you could wait inside with a cup of tea?”

“She’ll be here any minute,” he said dismissively. The irritation was evident in his voice. “Keep watch, and ensure that we aren’t disturbed.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Moments later, the sky rippled, forming a distorted sphere of air a few dozen yards from the impatient politician. He turned toward it slowly, folding his arms, and watched as it flashed, shimmered and produced a dark-haired woman. She was dressed in an elegant black and grey ball gown, with long satin gloves that reached past her elbows and a lace top that, while technically covering her bosom up to her neck (as was expected in Nilfgaard), offered a sumptuous view of her feminine figure.

“You’re _late_ , madam var Anahid,” Shilard said dryly, mouth locked in a frown.

The sorceress narrowed her deeply-shadowed eyes, her high heels clicking loudly against the pavement as she walked briskly toward him. The fitted bodice around her youthfully-contoured torso was accentuated by a deliberate sway of her hips. The soldiers took notice. “Teleporting hundreds of miles to a novel location is not as simple as mounting a horse, master Fitz-Oesterlen. It is an art which must be done with the utmost precision, and considering I wasn’t planning to be here for another two days-“

“Spare me your magical jargon,” the ambassador interrupted. “Your emperor does not employ you because you’re able to do simple things. Your only purpose is accomplishing that which is difficult.”

She came to a stop facing him, slowly crossing her arms to match his. “I assume you’ve summoned me here for such a purpose?”

“Indeed.” At the snap of Shilard’s fingers, a nearby soldier walked over and placed a small figurine in the gloved hand of the sorceress. “Do you know what this is?” He asked.

“Artifact compression,” she said plainly. “A difficult spell to cast… and a very painful one, I might add.”

“Do you know _who_ this is?” He asked, still frowning sternly.

She sighed, dropping her shoulders casually. “Enlighten me.”

“The sorceress, Triss Merigold.” Shilard studied the face of his guest closely, watching for any betrayal of emotion in her face. She gave none.

“The temerian counselor? I wonder who she crossed to receive such treatment?”

“Can you, uh… _reverse_ the spell?”

“I can…” she said slowly. “Decompression is far easier, though I cannot say what state she’ll be in once I’m finished. It’s extremely hard on the body. She will be disoriented for some time… and severely dehydrated. I’ll need quite a bit of water.”

“There's a fountain nearby. Will that suffice?”

“It should.”

“Let’s not delay any further, then.”

Shilard led the sorceress, along with a handful of soldiers, through a long, open-aired stone hallway, around a corner, and into a small courtyard with a fountain. The derelict fixture no longer bubbled, but its deep, twelve-foot-wide basin was mostly filled with murky water. The well-dressed mage tossed the figurine into the fountain, then stepped back cautiously.

“I’d move back, if I were you,” she said to the men in the room. They all did so as she began a series of detailed movements of her arms, contorting her fingers into difficult shapes and chanting loudly. Moments later, the water in the basin began to bubble and steam, and a low, agonizing moan echoed through the courtyard. The soldiers stared slack-jawed as a woman materialized in the fountain, nude and curled in the fetal position as she shuddered violently. The nilfgaardian sorceress stepped to the side, extending her arm toward the fountain in an elaborate flourish.

“Something ‘difficult,’” she said smugly.

Shilard’s expression remained unchanged. “Can she talk?”  
“Eventually,” the sorceress replied. “She seems to be intact.”

“Good,” the ambassador said, turning to face the sorceress. “Do you know why this was done to her?” He asked rhetorically, as the moans continued in the background. “Because she was a traitor to her homeland.”

Soldiers suddenly seized the sorceress’s hands, pinning them behind her back and forcing them into fists. Her black-lined eyes went wide with terror, arms struggling futilely to break free as the ambassador pulled a small, ebony-handled dagger from its sheath.

“You are a traitor to your homeland, Assire. Your emperor sends his regards.”

He firmly grasped the hair on the nape of her neck and slit her throat. Blood began to soak the black lace of her dress as she gasped helplessly, eyes darting back and forth in a panic.

“Hold her hands fast, gentlemen,” Shilard said without affect. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of the Glevisig incident. “You should know, madam sorceress, I take no joy in this sort of business. In truth, it saddens me. However, treason can be neither tolerated nor forgiven.” He plunged the full length of the blade under her ribs several times to ensure she bled out, then stepped back, pulled out a white handkerchief, wiped off the blade and returned it to its sheath.

“Wrap the body in cloth before you carry it out for burning,” he instructed. “She’s well known by the community of mages, and we don’t want to attract attention to her unfortunate demise.” He strolled casually over to the edge of the fountain, where Triss still shuddered, curled tightly into a ball. “Welcome to Loc Muinne, mistress Merigold,” he said in heavily accented common speech, his smile both cordial and somehow sinister. You and I are going to become very well acquainted with each other during your stay here.”

———————————————————

“There you have it,” Iorveth said, panting audibly. “Loc Muinne, the valley of sorrow.” He stood with hands on his hips, legs spread wide atop the mountain pass. Geralt was right behind him, barely winded. His leg was finally healed enough to handle normal activities without debilitating pain. Of course, making the uphill journey from the banks of the Pontar to the valley surrounding Loc Muinne was anything but normal. He surveyed the distant city for a moment - its maze-like structure with high-walled, open-air passageways, spacious courtyards and grand, albeit decrepit, amphitheater. “Ancient” was an appropriate term for the legendary, abandoned city, which stood as a monument to the dangers of hubris.

“Two civilizations met their end here,” Iorveth continued. “First the Vran, then my people - the Aen Siedhe.”

“If we’re not careful, it’ll be the end of a third,” Geralt mused sourly. “I take it you’ve been here before?”

“Oh yes. Quite a long time ago by your standards.”

“You forget - I’m almost as old as you are.”

“By _human_ standards, then. I was a legitimately young man at the time, full of foolish dreams fueled by hatred. How the times have changed…”

“Have they?”

“I’ll not lie - hatred still fuels me, Gwynbleidd, but I’ve long since given up on a young man’s dreaming. Life has bludgeoned it out of me through suffering. No, only pragmatism remains. But enough with the philosophical bullshit. We have work to do. C’mon.”

They descended the narrow, snowy pass, crunching ice and shale underfoot as harpies circled menacingly in the heights above them.

“I only saw one gate… and a hell of a moat,” Geralt said. “I assume you know another way in…”

“There are many ways to enter Loc Muinne, my friend. It was built to be a cultural center, not a fortress.”

“Is that how the Aen Siedhe evicted the Vran?”

Iorveth scoffed. “Do you know nothing of history outside your own?”

“How many ways do _you_ know to kill a kikimora?”

“Hmph. Well said. No, our people didn’t conquer the Vran at all. Disease did. And the loss of their habitat. The headwaters of the Pontar were once lush green lands, blooming with fruit trees and grains. Now, there’s only snow and harpies. If you put any faith in Ithlinne’s prophecy, that’s the fate of the entire world eventually - a cold, desolate death.”

“You’re just _full_ of positivity today.”

“As I told you, Geralt, I’m a pragmatist, not a dreamer.”

After discussing several options, Geralt and Iorveth elected to circle around to the eastern side of the city and scale the wall, which, having been built into the surrounding terrain, was surprisingly attainable. The city had been roughly divided into quadrants - to the south, the nilfgaardian embassy with by far the largest square footage; to the west, the kingdoms of Redania, Temeria, Aedirn and Kaedwen, each with their own space; to the north, the amphitheater and common areas for commerce and dining. The eastern quadrant, which was in disrepair, stood mostly empty, save for the occasional stray dog. The two fugitives waited for nightfall, then climbed their way into the crumbling stone chambers of the city.

“Well, I’ve gotten you in,” Iorveth said once they had a seat. “Any ideas on how to locate Saskia or Triss?”

“This place is bigger and busier than I expected,” the witcher answered. “We need a way to narrow the search. I may know someone who can help, but you’re not going to like it.”

“I rarely like what you have to say in these situations. Who?”

“Vernon Roche. I know he was planning to be here, and I know about where I might find him.”

“Do you honestly expect him to help you? You did shed blood alongside the Scoia’tael, you know.”

“He’ll help. I’m open to a better idea if you have one.”

“Not presently. So, am I to hide here like a criminal?”

“Iorveth, you _are_ a criminal. If Roche finds out you’re here, you can forget any help from him. I’ll get whatever information I can, return here, and we can make our plans.”

“Fine, but make it quick. Let’s hope your trust is not misplaced.”

Geralt pushed the hood of his outer cloak as far over his face as it would go, hiding his features in shadow as he matriculated through the winding passageways between the eastern ruins and the northern commons. Mobile vendors offered a cornucopia of goods and services - from food to tomes to exotic zerrikanian sabers. He was solicited by a tailor, a megascope builder, a representative for the school of magic at Aretuza, and two prostitutes before he reached the temerian quarter of the western embassies. After poking his head around more corners than he was comfortable risking, he finally arrived at the right location. Vernon Roche sat at a modest wooden desk, smoking a pipe and poring over a stack of papers by candlelight. He was so engrossed in the items that he didn’t notice the witcher enter the room.

“Interesting reading?” He asked, lowering his hood. The commander’s head snapped up, first with both eyebrows down, then with one lifted in disbelief.

“Geralt? What the devil are you doing here? And how in the ploughing _hell_ did you get in here?”

“Good to see you, too.”

“When I catch those good for nothing guardsmen, I’ll kick my boot so far up their asses-“

“Relax. I’m here as a friend,” Geralt interrupted.

“I’m beginning to have my doubts. I take it things went poorly at the ambassador’s camp…”

“They tried to kill me. Kidnapped Triss and brought her here.”

“I did warn you, you know.”

“I know. Listen, I need your help… and I’m willing to exchange information for it.”

“What kind of help? And what information?” He asked, eyes narrowed.

“I need to know where the nilfgaardians might be holding Triss… and I need to get in to see Saskia of Vergen.”

“The dragonslayer? Weren’t you just fighting by her side?”  
“She’s being used, Roche. Philippa Eilhart is pulling her strings, angling to run the country behind the scenes. She also has a dragon under her control.”

“A what? You can’t be serious.”

“I am. The same one from La Valette castle.”

“What does she intend to do with it?”

“Who knows? But if the summit doesn’t go the way she wants, things are going to get very ugly.”

“I’ll say. I’ve no idea where Saskia might be. Despite Henselt’s defeat, ‘Upper Aedirn’ is not yet a recognized political entity, and as such, they have no formal place in this dump. As to Triss’s whereabouts… haven’t you learned your lesson? She’s _gone_ , Geralt. Let it go. There’s nothing but death for you at the end of that road.”

“It’s not just about Triss,” Geralt said, lying more to himself than to Roche. “Síle de Tansarville’s mixed up in this, too. Saskia had Henselt’s mage executed as part of his surrender, and ordered him to install Síle as his new royal advisor.”

“Well, well… now that _is_ interesting information. Is she with Henselt now?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t very pleased with the arrangement. Why do you ask?”

“I have reason to believe Síle is the one who ordered Demavend’s assassination - and possibly Foltest’s as well.”

“Hmm… so, Demavend wouldn’t agree to an advisor and they killed him for it?”

“Aedirn hasn’t accepted any mages since Yennefer left Demavend’s service many years ago. She didn't exactly leave the best taste in his mouth. I expect was resistant to the idea.”

“Are you aware that Stennis was also killed?”

“Yes. Please tell me you had nothing to do with it.”

“I tried to stop it, but I was busy not getting stabbed by Henselt’s soldiers at the time. The official story is that his own peasants lynched him during the battle.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know.”

“It could have been Letho.”

“Or Philippa.”

“True, true… well, thankfully, Philippa won’t be a problem anymore. She was apprehended the moment she arrived here. She’s presently in a makeshift dungeon in the basement of the Redanian embassy, chained like a dog in dimeritium shackles.”

“What? Why?”

“Apparently she didn’t leave Radovid’s service on good terms,” Roche said, putting out his pipe and reaching under his desk for a small flask. “Hell of a time to be a sorceress. It’s probably safer to be a pawn in the army right now.”

“I need a way to get to Philippa. Surely you can pull some strings. We need to find a way to break the spell she has over this dragon, or Letho will be the least of your worries.”

Roche stroked his stubbly chin for a moment. “I could probably get you _in_ … getting out might prove more difficult.”

“I brought an apprentice,” Geralt replied. “Take him instead. I need to find Triss before Shilard tortures her.”

“Who exactly is this ap-“

Roche’s question was interrupted by a sergeant, who popped his head in the door unannounced to relay some orders for the commander. Unfortunately for Geralt, this particular sergeant was the diligent type, and recognized the face of Foltest’s suspected assassin immediately.

“Guards!” The man yelled, drawing his sword and blocking the doorway. “It’s the assassin!”

Geralt and Roche each muttered curses under their breath. Any chance of staying under cover was long gone. Geralt drew his dagger, and was prepared to fight his way through the entire temerian guard detail, when a blunt object hammered his skull from behind. Stunned and vision blurred, he dropped to the ground, and was immediately pounced upon by Vernon Roche.

“The whoreson was about to roast me alive with his black magic!” He said to the sergeant, who was promptly joined by three other men in arms. Roche pinned Geralt to the ground, leaning down and speaking quietly.

“Well, I guess it’ll be you after all.” The four soldiers crept forward cautiously, swords aimed at the disoriented witcher.

“You there - Simmons,” he said to one of the soldiers.

“It’s Simpson, sir,” he replied, eyes still fixed on Geralt.

“Whatever your name is, go and fetch some rope. Quickly! We must bind his hands with it.”

“…rope, sir?” The soldier queried hesitantly.

“Have you gone deaf, you idiot?” Roche shouted. “ _Rope_ , damnit! It’s the only thing that can prevent these northern witchers from using their spells. Isn’t that right, kingslayer?”

———————————————————

The makeshift dungeon in the subterranean level of Loc Muinne was predictably dank and pungent, reeking of rotting mushrooms and rat feces. Thick stone walls divided the small cells, with ornate iron gates brought in to replace the formerly wooden doors. Geralt’s knees skidded against the moist stone floor as the soldiers shoved him in, hands bound tightly behind his back with braided hemp. The soldiers took the only light source with them as they left, forcing the witcher to dilate his eyes fully to assess his situation and develop an escape plan. This process had just gotten underway when it was derailed by a voice from the other side of the wall.

“Have I got company at last?” The female voice asked. “And here, I thought they arranged this shit-hole just for me.”

He recognized Philippa’s voice immediately.

“Surprise, surprise. It’s your favorite witcher,” he replied with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

“Geralt? What on earth are you doing in here?”

“You left Vergen in such a hurry, I never got the chance to thank you for setting me up.”

“You know, humor really isn’t your strong suit, witcher. And what do you mean, I ‘set you up?’”

“Don’t play coy, witch. I know you sent me on a fool’s errand looking for Triss, and searching for Saskia’s poisoner.”

“I did no such thing!” She retorted, audibly closer to the shared wall. “It was Cynthia who performed the hydromancy and gave me Triss’s location. How was I to know she was a nilfgaardian spy?”  
“What - do you not read the minds of your leashed lovers?”

“She’s a goddamned _spy_ , Geralt! She’s been trained to disguise her thoughts. You really have a difficult time differentiating friend from foe, don’t you?”

“Not in your case. I know you’re controlling Saskia. Did you have Stennis killed to clear a path for her?”

“Stennis reaped the reward for his treatment of his subordinates, nothing more. I didn’t need to lift a finger. And Saskia is still very much in control of herself… for the most part.”

“Until you need her to behead a mage who knew too much about your plans. Why don’t you just summon her and break yourself out?”

“Are you truly that dull, Geralt, or do you enjoy playing the fool? Dimeritium shackles inhibit all forms of magic, including telepathy. I’m not worried about it, though. My internment here is but a misunderstanding. Yours, on the other hand, will lead you swiftly to the gallows, most likely by way of the torturer.”

“Don’t be so sure you’ll escape the same fate.”

“I may not have my magic, witcher, but I still have a way with words, especially when it comes to Radovid. I shall talk my way out of this dungeon once he arrives. You, on the other hand, will be paraded in front of the masses like a spectacle. I do pity you.”

Geralt sat with his back against the wall and dozed off for an hour or so, before the sounds of approaching footsteps awakened him. The glow of torchlight grew brighter as the steps approached, then very dim, as the visitors - at least four in number - opened the creaky iron gate and entered Philippa’s cell.

The sorceress’s eyes lit up when the king of Redania stepped into the room, accompanied by a few soldiers and a black-dressed nobleman. Radovid was a sturdy, well-dressed man who projected a far more commanding presence than his youth would suggest. His piercing green eyes stared intently at the prisoner as a smile of satisfaction grew on his bearded face.

“Your Majesty,” she said cautiously, bowing slowly. She was unaccustomed to reading facial expressions without the benefit of mind-reading. It made her feel exposed and vulnerable.

“Philippa Eilhart,” he said, standing with arms crossed and legs shoulder’s-width apart. “I’ve waited long for this meeting. You left Redania in such a hurry, I didn’t have time to give you the send-off you so richly deserved.”

“Your majesty, I fail to understand why I have been arrested,” she replied, risking a more impassioned tone. “I’ve done nothing but serve Redania’s interests - supporting the rebellion, undermining Henselt… risking my own reputation on your behalf.”

He chuckled dryly as the grin on his face widened. “Oh, Philippa… I’m no longer the little boy who believed your every word. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Why are you doing this, Radovid? I was there… in your most trying hours. I taught you, sheltered you, counseled you… without me, you would not be the man you are. I don’t understand…”

His smile left abruptly. “You understand very well. The entire Redanian court once trembled in fear of Philippa Eilhart, but it was an ill-gained respect. You conspired against my father, and against me.”

“Untrue, sire!” She said pleadingly. “You must let me explain! What charges do you bring against me, your majesty? Surely there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Ambassador?” Radovid said, as the black-dressed nobleman stepped forward into the light.

“Triss Merigold was kind enough to give up the names of several conspirators known as the ‘Lodge of Sorceresses.’ Some nilfgaardian sorceresses were members as well, but they have already been… neutralized.”

Visible fear appeared on Philippa’s face. “Triss… Surely you don’t believe this, sire! It is an unfounded an heinous accusation.”

“Oh, I believe it, Philippa, because it’s the truth. The ‘Lodge’ ordered the assassination of Demavend. They ordered the assassination of Foltest, Stennis, and most likely that of Vizimir, my father. And if I released you from the dimeretium, I suspect you’d kill me, too.” He moved in closer. “You’re finished, Eilhart. There will be a trial, due process… everything as it should be, but know this - you shall not wriggle out of this. You shall be convicted of conspiracy, treason and regicide. They’ll rip your flesh from you in bits before they burn you at the stake.”

The sorceress began to tremble, as fear and rage swelled up inside her in equal amounts. Radovid continued.

“Throughout my childhood, I could always feel your cold stare at the back of my neck. When I issued orders, my subjects would search for Philippa Eilhart’s gesture of consent. The entire court at Tretegor looked on as you humiliated me. All Redania laughed behind my back. ‘The henpecked king,’ they called me. Oh yes, I heard their jeers. I learned of their mockery. And do you know what became of those tongues which were found to have spoken against me? I had them cut out. It was you who taught me to stiffen my spine, to look everyone in the eye and force them to lower their gaze. Do you remember? ‘A king must never show weakness or uncertainty,’ you said. I’ve mastered that skill, yet there is one I could never force to submit. You. You’ve one chance to shorten your suffering. Admit to everything, here and now, in the ambassador’s presence. Lower your gaze and repent. Submit.”

The rage inside the sorceress won out over fear. She stood, hands trembling visibly with emotion, and stared directly into the eyes of the king with all the disdain and defiance she could express.

“… as you wish,” Radovid said menacingly, staring back with equal intensity. “Guards!” He shouted without breaking eye contact, “put out those vile eyes.”

Philippa wailed in pain and despair as the guards seized her and gouged out her eyes, one by one. She fell to her hands and knees, moaning and retching, as bloody streaks colored her cheeks below empty sockets.

The king stepped closer, crushing the remains of one of her disembodied organs with the sole of his boot. “You _will_ submit, witch… before the end. We will speak again.”

Geralt heard the clanking of Philippa’s cell door, and rushed to his.

“Your Majesty! A word?”

Radovid and his guard detail approached the witcher’s cell, standing just outside arms’ reach.

“Geralt of Rivia… when I heard you’d been detained, I hoped it was untrue. The witcher I knew would not allow himself to be taken alive.”

“I’m innocent of Foltest’s death,” Geralt said plainly, “but you probably know that already.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the king replied with a slight sigh, “but if you’re asking me to release you-“

“Not _me_ , your majesty,” he interrupted. “I’m asking for \\\you to have mercy on Triss Merigold. She was merely caught up in the gears of this plot. If it’s true that she’s been compliant…”

“Your friend is now in the custody of ambassador Fitz-Oesterlen.”

“I know, but surely Shilard won’t deny you a small favor, sire. All you have to do is ask.”

“No, witcher. Regrettably, I cannot. This is a complicated matter, more so than you can appreciate. Politics, Geralt, is like a grand, intricate puzzle. One never knows which pieces will end up proving valuable in the end, and which ones simply have no place and must be thrown out. It’s true that I wield considerable influence with the leaders at this summit, but I must be strategic with my usage of that power. I have larger favors yet to ask of Nilfgaard, and it is the duty of those blessed with the divine right to rule and superior wisdom in these matters to remain focused on the bigger picture. A great breakthrough awaits us at the summit - one that will bring the Lodge to ruin and establish Redania’s dominance in the north. I will not risk such a momentous event for any one life.”

“Your majesty-“

“Good day, witcher. May the gods have mercy on you.”

The light from the soldiers slowly faded into the distance, along with Geralt’s hopes of Triss’s release. He stood at the gate for several minutes, running through escape scenarios in his mind. As he did, he heard pitiful whimpering from the other side of the wall - the sound of crying without eyes. The sound toyed with his mind, filling his thoughts with images of Triss having similar - or worse - things done to her, while he stood, hands bound, staring at the wall. He was desperate to fill the time with something, anything else.

“Was Shilard telling the truth?” He asked, leaning against the wall he shared with Philippa, “about the Lodge and the assassinations?”

After a moment, Philippa sniffed, huffed a sigh and replied.

“He said exactly what Radovid wanted to hear. Half-truths… musings stripped of context, which differ very little from lies.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Nor do I feel like answering it,” she said, her tone a mixture of misery and spite. “The question you really want to ask it, ‘was Triss guilty?’”

“And?”

“I believe Lebioda said it best. ‘There are none righteous - not even one.’ To tell you the truth, we’d lost faith in her over the past several months - mostly because of you. Demavend’s death was not her doing.”

“And Foltest?”

“Regicide or not, Triss is far from the innocent child you take her to be. I assure you - she has not been fully honest with you on a good many things.”

Geralt huffed in frustration. “Don’t want to talk? Fine. I’ll ask her myself.”

“Don’t fool yourself,” she said, despondent and fatalistic. “She’s already given up the names of the Lodge members, and the Black Ones killed their own sorceresses. You’ll be lucky if you can even find her ashes. Now, leave me alone. I wish to suffer in peace.”

Geralt went back to staring at the wall, but had only minutes of solitude before a light reappeared in the hallway. He recognized the cadence of footsteps almost immediately, backing away from the door and reminding himself to remain calm and detached. The chime of keys clinking against one another echoed down the stone corridor, followed by the creaking of an opening door, and the nilfgaardian ambassador stepped in.

“Radovid is wise,” he began, as two imperial soldiers took their place beside him, “but naive. He has yet to learn that only the dead are truly silent.”

“You got what you want from Triss,” Geralt said. “Let her go.”

“What I want from Triss Merigold is to see her body on a pyre, along with the rest of these scheming witches. For you, however, I fear a prolonged stay and public execution would only introduce… _complications_ to my life. Consider yourself lucky, witcher. The removal of your head in these confines will spare you a great deal of suffering - something your neighbor, here, will reap in abundance.”

“How did you learn about the Lodge to begin with?” Geralt asked, stalling for time. He formed the Igni Sign behind his back, taking care to stifle the fire so that it merely heated the rope which bound his hands.

Shilard scoffed. “What do you think this is, a stage drama? How about this - I’ll tell you all about my secret plans once your body is cold.” He snapped his fingers, and the soldier next to him drew his sword. The rope was starting to smoke, though standing next to a flaming torch, the Nilfgaardians failed to notice. “Do us all a favor and hold still this time,” the ambassador said, as the soldier stepped forward and prepared to swing his sword.

What happened next took place so quickly that a casual observer could not have been expected to make sense of the sequence of events. Just before the soldier swung his sword forward, Geralt snapped the weakened rope behind his back, reached out, and snatched the sword out of the unsuspecting man’s hands. In a blur of steel, he slashed cleanly through the soldier’s throat, cleared the distance to the other armed man in two strides, and plunged the tip of the blade in and out of his neck, just above the collarbone. He then bashed the hilt of his sword into the face of the stunned ambassador, breaking his nose, and, seizing him by the collar, pressed his head against the stone wall. Shilard fumbled frantically for his dagger, but Geralt swatted it out of his hands, then placed both hands firmly around the neck of the middle-aged man and looked him eye to eye from six inches away.

“You’re going to take me to Triss, and we won’t have any problems along the way, because if I become unhappy, I’m going to start removing body parts. We’ll start with the testicles, then your fingers, one by one. After that… well, a pudgy dandy like you will probably bleed out by that point. So, unless you want to become a eunuch who wipes his ass with a stump, you'd best play along. Understand?”

The wide-eyed politician nodded his reddened, oxygen-deprived head rapidly, as the second soldier finally lost his balance and toppled to the ground.

“Wait, Geralt!” Philippa pleaded from the other side of the wall. “Have mercy! Take me with you.”

“What - so you can double-cross me again? No. You can sit on your ass and rot down here.”

‘Think it through, witcher! I can help you, help you rescue Triss. Only I can release the spell on Saskia. Think about it - we can help each other!”

“I don’t need any more ‘ _help_ ’ from you,” he said, placing the sword on his back and using Shilard’s dagger to prod him toward the exit. “Lead the way, _excellency_.”

The ambassador led Geralt slowly up two winding flights of steps, around a guard station, and out into the starlit walking paths of Loc Muinne’s ground floor. A brisk wind gusted through the towering hallways, walled with huge, hewn stones stacked in intricate geometrical patterns, somewhat akin to a giant tiled fresco.

It was somewhere between three and four in the morning as they moved awkwardly through the ruined city, and the few people who were moving about seemed either too drunk or too uninterested to bother them. One Redanian soldier came over to ask what they were doing, but Geralt easily brushed him off with the Axii Sign and a suggestion that he needed to go check on the other side of the hallway. The nilfgaardian quarter was similarly unpopulated at that hour, but with the ambassador’s easily-recognizable face, Geralt opted for an extra layer of caution.

“Act like you’re drunk,” he instructed Shilard, placing a hand on his back and hiding the dagger in the large silk ruff atop his black doublet. “And just in case you’re feeling heroic - you saw how quickly I killed your men in the dungeon. One lapse in judgement, and I’ll shove this blade so far up the base of your skull your eyes will bulge out. Got it?”

“You’re plan won’t work, witcher,” the ambassador replied, surprisingly unemotional. “My men recognize me, and they’re likely to recognize you. The best chance for you to continue living is to release me and escape while you still can.”

“Keep moving,” Geralt commanded, pushing the tip of the blade against Shilard’s skin until he drew blood. “I’m losing my patience.”

They skirted around a few bored-looking sentries, past the temporary embassy and garrison, and came to a dusty, rubble-strewn alley that was clearly meant to be off-limits to the public. Grotesque stone gargoyles loomed overhead, grinning devilishly through broken teeth and moss-covered features dulled with age. Ivy clung to large fissures in the walls, which wove to and fro in an oddly organic pattern. After splashing through puddles and stumbling across uneven paving stones, they stepped into a room full of flourished columns, which looked as though they once held a roof aloft. A single guard stood alone at the far end of the room, dressed in the traditional black-winged helmet and steel-plate chest-piece of the nilfgaardian elite units.

“What is your business here?” He asked warily in the Nilfgaardian tongue, stepping forward with torch in one hand and his other on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

“The ambassador’s had a few too many, just escorting him back,” Geralt said in Common Speech, guessing at the meaning of the guard’s challenge. He calculated the most efficient method to silence the soldier, tightening his grip on the dagger as he nudged Shilard forward. The guard squinted his eyes at the tall, hooded figure in the flickering torchlight, then opened them wide in recognition. Geralt lowered the dagger from Shilard’s neck and threw it, sinking the blade into the guard’s eye socket. He staggered and slumped to the ground without a word.

Geralt took the sword from his back, and held it to the ambassador’s neck. “All right, no more acting,” he said, forcing the man forward. “Let’s hope your men like you more than I do.”

“They will die before betraying their emperor,” Shilard grunted, finally showing signs of fear.

“Then I guess they’ll die,” he said dismissively, stopping at the doorway to pick up the guard’s sword and slide it into the scabbard on his back.

Once inside the door, things began to happen quickly. Another young man in a winged helmet saw the witcher and his prisoner, and immediately called for help. In moments, a half dozen men entered the room - two archers, three swordsmen, and an older, shaven-head man in a ruffled doublet similar to Shilard’s.

“Don’t shoot, Renuald!” Shilard pleaded. The bald man cocked a crossbow casually, as the other soldiers fanned out around him.

“What’s the meaning of this, witcher?” He asked gruffly, speaking with a surprisingly mild accent.

“It’s simple,” Geralt answered, pressing the blade a little tighter against Shilard’s throat as he squirmed frantically. “Tell your men to stand down, and bring Triss Merigold to me. Everybody leaves alive.”

“You’ve had little dealings with the empire, I see,” he replied, aiming his weapon at the witcher and his hostage. “We value the fatherland over camaraderie. Do what you must to the ambassador, but the wench will remain in our custody until we’re finished questioning her.”

“You doubt I’ll do it?” Geralt asked, raising the blade further, until Shilard was on the tips of his toes.

“Not at all. You simply chose the wrong bargaining piece.” He turned to his men, commanding something in Nilfgaardian, then back to the witcher. “As for you, ambassador, the White Flame no longer has need of your services.” He fired a crossbow bolt at Shilard’s chest, driving a hole through his sternum and spewing blood onto the floor.

“Damnit,” Geralt sighed, dropping the ambassador and readying his sword overhead. “Now you _all_ have to die.”

Two more crossbow bolts flew at him a breath later, from opposite sides of the room. Unable to deflect both, he chose one, knocking it away mid-air. The other passed cleanly between his shoulder and collarbone, but in the adrenaline-fueled heat of battle, it did little to slow his advance. He charge forward in a flash, opening the carotid of one archer and knocking two of the swordsmen down with a pulse of Aard. The third swordsman was a step too late with his attack. Geralt instinctively parried and riposted, flaying the inside of his arm, then disemboweling him. Before the other two could get back on their feet, he reached the second archer, who had just had time to draw his sword. Geralt swung mightily with a two-handed strike, cutting the man’s hand - and sword - from the rest of his arm, then backhanded his blade across the defender’s throat. 

Both the remaining soldiers rushed at the witcher in unison. He spun around, casting Igni and enveloped them both in flames. As they screamed and patted their arms against their torsos in a panic, he methodically opened their arteries and pushed them over, leaving only the bald commander. The older man turned and ran, scrambling through a doorway and into an adjacent room, before the witcher caught up to him, slashing down his back and narrowly missing his spine. The commander stumbled to the ground, and Geralt picked him up, placing the tip of his bloodied sword under the man’s chin.

“Where’s Triss?” He asked through clenched teeth.

“Go to hell,” the man grunted.

“Wrong answer,” Geralt said coldly, thrusting his sword upward and releasing the now-limp body to the ground. After wiping the blood and brain tissue off of his weapon, he began rifling through the commanders clothes and drew out a small key ring. He set about searching the dark ruins for signs of Triss, which didn’t take long. In the relatively desolate confines of the stone-walled rooms, her distinctive scent was easy to follow. He descended a spiral staircase, broke through two wooden doors, and came to a large storage room that was once a wine cellar. Chained to the wall across from the door was Triss Merigold, hanging limply by her shackled hands. He inhaled sharply, rushing immediately to her side and checking for a pulse. Her heart was still beating weakly, though with alarming irregularity.

“Hang on, Triss,” he said urgently, searching for the right key from the ring. She mumbled something incoherent, raising her head slightly and trying to look through swollen, blackened eyes. Geralt had to try three different keys, but finally found the match. As soon as her hands were free, she slumped into the witcher’s waiting arms, chest expanding rhythmically as she whimpered and cried.

“You’re safe now,” he said, taking her up in his arms and starting toward the door. “I killed them all. You’re safe.”

Iorveth was nowhere to be found when he finally reached the unpopulated eastern quadrant of the city, so Geralt took what he needed from their hidden supply cache and escaped the way he’d entered. It was nearly dawn by the time he laid Triss down at a cave entrance in the surrounding mountainside, wrapping her in two blankets and his own cloak. Even a quarter mile from the city walls, a fire was too risky, but something had to be done - the sight of her incessant shivering was too much to bear. Dehydrated, starving and battered, she lacked even the strength to endure the cool mountain air, lapsing between groggy consciousness and fitful sleep. He slowly inspected her bruised body, cleaning deep gashes and bandaging open wounds before tending to his own injury, which had finally started to throb angrily. Once he was satisfied with his medical treatment, he laid next to Triss, wrapping his arms around her trembling, clammy skin until at last she calmed down and fell into a deep sleep. Geralt was exhausted, but he remained wide awake. There were many questions he needed to ask Triss once she awoke, most of them unpleasant.


	18. A Summit of Mages

Triss Merigold awoke with a jolt, scampering backward on her hands and knees and wrapping the blankets around her bare skin defensively. Geralt had been sitting a few paces away, sharpening his stolen nilfgaardian sword when he heard the commotion. He rushed over, shushing the frightened sorceress with arms outstretched peacefully.

“Hey! It’s okay. You’re safe…"

Recognition lit up her swollen eyes as she inhaled sharply. “Geralt?” She buried herself in his chest, squeezing him tightly. “I thought it was all a dream… some kind of… hallucination. I thought I was dying.”

“You were,” he said softly.

“Where are we now?”

“A half hour’s hike from Loc Muinne. Come and sit - you need food and water.”

“Yeah… yeah food sounds really good.”

Triss ate ravenously and emptied a water flask before slowing down to talk again.

“Tell me what happened. The last thing I remember clearly is being tortured by those nilfgaardian bastards.”

“I fought my way through - killed a half dozen soldiers, along with their commander, and the ambassador.”

She looked at him with sincere gratitude. “Thank you. That was a huge risk…”

“I’d walk through hell to save you, I’m just sorry it took me so long to get to you. I can give you the whole, detailed story, but I need to ask you a few things first… and I need you to be honest with me.”

Her expression shifted in an instant. “…okay…”

“I know about the Lodge or Sorceresses, Triss, and I know you’re a member. Were you part of the plot to assassinate Demavend and Foltest?”

She stared at the ground for a moment, unsure how to respond. “Who have you been talking to?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Philippa Eilhart, among others. Radovid had her shackled in dimeretium and gouged out her eyes. He and Shilard rounded up and killed most of the rest.”

“Oh no… oh no…”

“Listen, Triss - you have nothing to fear from me, but I need to know. Were you part of the assassinations?”

“…there was talk about Demavend,” she began, voice hollow as she continued staring blankly at the ground. “We knew he was an inept leader… and that he’d never accept an advisor. We also knew Nilfgaard was starting to mobilize for another campaign, and Aedirn would be an easy target. We talked about options to replace him, but… I never thought it would come to regicide. I never signed up for that.”

“Did you know about it?”

“No. They stopped trusting me a while ago, stopped inviting me to the meetings. I didn’t really know if I was in or out.”

“Why?”

She looked up at him, her expression contrite and remorseful. “Because of you.”

“Me?”  
“The Lodge only survives by secrecy. They didn’t trust me to keep you in the dark on things.”

“Well, you did a damn good job of it.”

“I was trying to protect you! You see what they’re willing to do to people who get in the way. Geralt… I only hid things from you to keep you safe.”

“How long have you been part of this Lodge?”

She paused before answering, taking a long, deep breath. “A very long time.”

“Long enough to use me as a pawn in their schemes? Like Philippa did in Vergen, or Síle in Flotsam?”

“What? No! Geralt-“

“What part of our relationship has been real? Any of it?” The witcher’s normal, emotionless facade was gone, his heart pounding as he released thoughts he’d been stifling for too long. Triss could see the intensity in his eyes, the accusation and betrayal they conveyed.

“All of it. I swear!” She answered passionately, looking into his golden eyes with all the sincerity she could muster. He turned away. She continued. “Being part of the Lodge was a mistake. I see that now. I wanted to effect change… to prevent another war. I wanted to stop crying about the state of the world and actually do something to fix it… but Philippa and the others are… _were_ … no better than the kings they wanted to control. I was naive, and yes, I wasn’t completely honest with you, I admit that, but none of that - _none of that_ changes the way I feel about you.”

“I want to believe that, Triss. I really do.”

She felt a cold emptiness in her chest, as her mind spun out of control with anxiety-spawning scenarios. _He doesn’t believe me_ , she thought. _He doesn’t trust me. Will he ever trust me again? Will he ever want me again? What can I say? If he leaves me here… if he leaves me at all… I can’t let that happen_. She pushed the thoughts out of her mind.

“It’s the truth. I don’t know what I can do to convince you.”

Geralt went silent for an unbearably long time, looking off into the mountains. Triss’s mind began spinning scenarios again, nearly suffocating her. And then, just like that, the moment was over.

“Enough about that, then,” the witcher said, returning to his usual pragmatic, emotionless tone. “We need to talk about what to do now. As soon as you’re able to travel, we should head north to Kaer Morhen. We can stock up on supplies and lay low for a little while, though I doubt we’ll be safe there for long. I think our best shot would be to travel to Brokilon forest. We can find asylum there, maybe spend a year or two among the dryads until things cool down and people find new things to care more about than chasing us down.”

Triss took a moment to absorb his words before looking up, eyebrows raised questioningly. “‘ _We_?’”

“Of course. Assuming that… you’d want to-“

“Yes!” She interrupted, shuddering physically at the rush of relief that came with his words. “Yes, I want to.”

“Good. We stand a better chance together. Plus… I owe it to you. I should’ve found you sooner, shouldn’t have trusted Philippa.”

“Philippa? What do you mean?”

Geralt sighed, shaking his head ruefully. “When Letho took you, I didn’t have much to go on. All I knew was that you were near Vergen. I took the fastest ship I could find, but there was no trail to follow. Philippa said she could help me find you, but only if I did her dirty work for her.”

“What kind of dirty work? What was she up to?”

“Do you really not know?”

“Geralt… I told you, she hasn’t shared her plans with me in months.”

“Alright, then. She poisoned Saskia - or, had her poisoned, then used me to point the blame at Stennis. I had no idea until it was too late. Now, thanks to her, Stennis is dead, Síle is Henselt’s new advisor, and Philippa has a dragon at her beck and call. I should’ve known.”

Triss suddenly became very animated. “Dragon? You mean the one at La Valette castle?”  
“The same. It’s Saskia, Triss. _Saskia_ is the dragon. Though, you probably knew that, too.”

“Oh no… Geralt, we have to stop them. We have to do something…”

“There’s nothing to do. Philippa’s been neutralized, remember? She has no way to control Saskia.”

“That’s not how those spells work,” Triss replied, eyes darting back and forth as she ran through a series of thoughts in her head. “If Philippa and Síle are working together on this, she would’ve given Síle the ability to take over control if something like this happened. What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“Damn. Tomorrow morning, every regent left in the north, and every mage worth mentioning will all be in that amphitheater, with very limited military escorts and a magical barrier to keep anyone from casting spells. A dragon could swoop in and kill them all… clear the deck of any leadership outside of Saskia.”

“Do you seriously think they’d try that?”

“There’s only one thing Philippa cares about. Power. Can you think of an easier way to get it?”

“I agree, it’s bad,” Geralt said, his voice taking a more defensive, argumentative tone, “but there’s nothing we can do about it. You’re in no shape to go anywhere, and even if you were, we’re _both_ wanted now, preferably dead.”

“No! We can’t run from this, Geralt… we can’t sit back and let this happen.”

“The hell we can’t,” he fired back firmly. “I nearly died - twice - to get you out of all this mess. I’m not about to march you back into the fire.”

“Don’t you see? This is bigger than us. Look, I don’t want it, either. I want to run away with you, to hide and forget everything I know, but… but we can’t just hide from the world and come out when things are safe. There won’t be a safe world to come back to. We _have_ to do this. Besides, we won’t need to fight. I have an idea…”

Triss explained a simple - but risky - plan to save the summit from disaster and clear their names in the process. Geralt didn’t like it, but there was no changing her mind. He begrudgingly agreed, and they began preparation. Once she was up for it, she teleported away, returning an hour later with a clean outfit, a bottle of wine, and a silver sword. They strategized over dinner, then sat under the stars, emptying the bottle and talking about happier times and simpler things. It took a while, but for a moment, they both forgot the unbearable weight of stress looming overhead and relaxed like old friends and young lovers. It was a beautiful reprieve, but it was fleeting. Both laid awake most of the night, curled together for warmth, unaware that the other was equally anxious about the plan, which could very easily backfire. Dawn came quickly, and the anxiety gave way to determination. They collected their things, fastened their weapons, and headed back to Loc Muinne.

The climb to the city was especially difficult for Triss - Geralt had to carry her on his back the final portion - but once they were inside, her talents made things much easier. She cast an illusion spell which disguised their faces, and rather than sneaking around, they walked right up to the amphitheater’s grand, marble-framed doors. Triss pulled Geralt to the side just before they entered, whispering a few final instructions in his ear.

“Remember, as soon as we step into that room, the barrier will break my spell. Anyone who knows us will recognize us, so we’ve gotta move quickly.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?” He whispered back. “It’s not too late to turn back.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, his mouth in a thin, straight line. “Okay. I’m with you.”

“And Geralt… if I something happens to me…”

“Triss-“

She pulled away to look him directly in the eyes. “I love you. Just… you should know that.” She watched his face expectantly, hopefully. He stared back in silence. “… … nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“Right,” she said, breaking away and turning to face the doorway to hide her visible disappointment. “We should go. C’mon.”

The huge meeting space was easily the most impressive room in the city. Beautiful marble benches curved in concentric semicircles with a large, paved stage as the focal point below. Curved iron hooks held huge baskets aloft overhead, spilling over with fern branches and ivy, while potted flowers around the perimeter scented the air with a mildly sweet aroma. Behind the stage rose a huge white monolith - easily seventy feet high, with portions of the old elven law engraved on it in the sort of elegant, artistic flair that only the elves would think to use.

A crowd of several hundred mages, politicians and bodyguards filled the seats, which made it easy for Geralt and Triss to make their way near the front undetected. In a stroke of good luck, Síle, Henselt and Radovid were all at the front of the room, talking to the crowd about trade treaties among the northern kingdoms. The debate was so enthralling that it was only when Triss called out that anyone noticed them at all.

“Your majesties!” She shouted, walking right down the center aisle with Geralt behind her. “Beware - you’re conversing with a traitor.”

Síle’s eyes widened, nostrils flared in surprise and anger.

“Triss Merigold,” Radovid said with a wary smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice of you to join us…”

“You are out of line!” Síle retorted sharply. “Have a seat, or you’ll be escorted out.”

The crowd murmured noisily. Radovid motioned with his hand, and the sound of armored men in unison followed soon afterward.

“You threw Philippa in your dungeon, sire, for treason,” Triss continued, coming to a stop at the edge of the stage. “But Síle was a co-conspirator with her.”

“That’s a serious accusation to present without proof, madam Merigold,” Radovid said, stroking his chin. “Are you not aware that miss de Tansarville is the royal counselor for King Henselt?”

Geralt turned to look for the approaching soldiers. Two dozen men were descending the steps behind them, swords at the ready. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder.

“Oh, I’m aware,” Triss answered loudly, turning to the crowd. “Síle arranged for Dethmold’s death so she could be forced on Henselt as a condition of surrender, just like she and Philippa Eilhart conspired to have Demavend assassinated - a task carried out by the witcher, Letho of Gullet.”

“Majesties, this is ridiculous!” Sile shouted. “You can’t possibly-"

“Shut your mouth, madam de Tansarville,” Henselt barked, “or I’ll shut if for you. Please, continue, miss.”

“I was once part of this Lodge of Sorceresses,” Triss said, motioning to the crowd to quiet down. “I believed like you, that kings and magicians should be working together. When I realized the lengths they were willing to go to in order to secure power and position, I distanced myself from them, though none may leave their ranks alive. Friends, we must not give up on this endeavor - to rebuild the conclave and council, to once again partner together as we did before the disaster at Thanedd - but we must do it with honesty, transparency, and peace.”

“Proof!” Someone from the crowd yelled. A hearty chorus of others sounded their agreement. Radovid’s soldiers formed a semicircle around Triss and Geralt, ready to pounce on them if instructed to do so.

Triss reached into her pocked and pulled out a large crystal, roughly three inches in length. She held it up, first to the kings, then to the crowd. “This is a record of four conversations Philippa and Síle had over megascopes, discussing the details of their plot.”

The murmurs of the crowd turned to gasps and shouting. Geralt pressed in closer, until he was shoulder to shoulder with Triss. He could sense violence threatening to erupt like the thickness in the air right before a heavy rain.

“You lying hag!” Síle hissed. “It’s a forgery!”

“You really should be more careful, darling,” Triss replied smugly, walking forward and placing the crystal in Radovid’s hand. “I distilled this from Philippa’s megascope, which still stands at her residence in Vergen. Let the council and your majesties collect their own evidence, if they need more convincing.”

“Oh, we will,” Radovid answered, slowly and sinisterly, grabbing Síle forcefully, just above the elbow. “We’ll unravel every last bit of- … what the hell?!”

The king’s train of thought was abruptly cut off by the panicked shrieks of hundreds of voices in the crowd. A dark shadow encompassed the stage, followed promptly by a ground-shaking thud, as a dragon came to rest on a bannister behind them. Geralt pushed Triss to the ground, throwing his body over hers just in time to avoid a searing stream of fire, which spewed over the crowd, burning mages and nobles alike.

Radovid’s soldiers convened around him, shielding him as best they could, and ushered him to safety. The dragon let him go - it was only concerned with Síle. Wrapping its talons carefully around the midsection of the sorceress, the dragon lifted her up, carried her to the top of the obelisk, and gingerly set her down. As soon as Síle was safely out of range, the dragon swooped back down, spewing another river of flame over the scrambling, panicked crowd. Geralt took Triss’s head in his hands, speaking quickly as the beast began its descent.

“Don’t try to run - you’ll be trampled. Hide. Play dead. Stay down.”  
“What about you?” She asked, afraid of what course of action he might be considering.

“Síle’s trapped. I’m gonna kill her.”

“Wait! Geralt-“

He was in a dead sprint by the time she spoke his name, reaching the obelisk as the dragon busied itself burning humans to death. He blew the heavy wooden door at the base of the tower off its hinges with Aard, and began racing up the square-shaped staircase. Though Síle was busy directing the dragon to kill her foes, he knew eventually she’d notice him approaching from the staircase. He drew his silver sword, which Eskel loaned to him through Triss the previous day, and held it overhead. The runes on it were inferior to those on the sword he lost at the nilfgaardian embassy, but they still gave him a chance to deflect a variety of spells thrown his way - provided his reflexes were sharp enough. Faster and faster he climbed, pushing through the growing pain in his mostly-healed thigh as the sounds of death and horror raged louder than ever from the ground below. At the top of the stairs was a rope ladder. He quickly scaled it, nudging the overhead wooden hatch that led to the flat rooftop where Síle stood. It was unlocked. He flung it open and leapt through the square opening, only to be greeted by a bolt of lightning before his feet hit the stone-paved rooftop. A flash of his rune-enchanted blade deflected the energy at the last second, sending it careening harmlessly into the mountain range beside them. Clearly, the magical barrier inhibiting the sorceresses in the amphitheater didn’t reach to the top of the obelisk. Before he had time to take a step, two more bolts of electricity came at him from across the square rooftop, which was less than twenty feet wide. He expertly parried both, feeling the tingling jolt of energy through his gauntlets and up to his shoulders, and took three steps forward, casting Aard. The pulse of force nearly knocked the sorceress off the building, but she cast a defensive spell and caught her heels on the raised border of the floor.

Síle recovered quickly, waiving her arms furiously and sending not a bolt, but a continuous stream of bluish electricity. Geralt managed to shield himself using Quen in one hand and the sword in the other, sending electricity arcing and spiderwebbing in loud tendrils across the rooftop. His defense would only hold up for so long - the stream grew more intense with every passing second, and he sensed his sword grip quickly heating as the energy radiated through it.

“You just don't know when to quit, do you, witcher?” She said through clenched teeth, continuing to project energy with one hand as she began tracing an arced path with the other. “You’re too late. Au revoir!”

A ripple formed in the air behind her, expanding into to a shimmering circle large enough to step in. Geralt cursed bitterly, unable to even inch forward in the wake of the blue energy which was heating his sword grip to an untenable level. To make matters worse, the shouts and shrieks had quieted from below, replaced by the sound of huge leathery wings ascending toward him from behind. Painful, numbing tingles weaved their way from his hands up his arms, and began resonating in his ribcage. He yelled, pushing back with all his might, when suddenly the intensity eased up. The portal behind Síle began to waver and flicker erratically, swaying her entire body as it bulged and contracted. Her hardened look of determination melted into an expression of sheer panic as the circle pulsed faster and faster, flashing spasmodically in random, blinding bursts of color.

“No, no, no! Gods, no!” She gasped, dropping the beam of electricity and searching her gown frantically with both hands as she backed away from the growing orb of distortion. Geralt fell to his knees in relief, preparing to lunge forward and attack, when the portal exploded into a brilliant kaleidoscope of colored energy. Síle’s body was rent in two, sending bits of bone, cloth and singed skin across the rooftop in a red-hued mist. The witcher was nearly blown off the obelisk by the concussion, catching the ledge with his outstretched hand, feet dangling precariously above the stone amphitheater stage below. He grunted in effort, hauling himself back to the roof and collapsed flat on his back to catch his breath. Moments later, a deafening roar thundered in his ears, shaking the tower like an earthquake. The dragon, enraged and vindictive, landed with a rumble on the roof across from him, inhaling deeply and rearing back its head to strike.

“You killed her!” A furious voice shouted in his head. “You killed her! You killed her!”


	19. Enter the Dragon

Geralt rolled back to the edge of the obelisk, dropping his body over the side as fire bellowed from the dragon. His fingers screamed at him in pain, bearing the brunt of the flames, which quickly consumed his leather gauntlets and blackened his skin. As soon as the flames passed, he climbed up with quivering forearms and dashed toward the dragon, whose gargantuan body took up most of the space on the rooftop.  
“Murderer!” The voice in his head shrieked, so powerful in its projection that it blurred his vision momentarily. “Murderer! Die a murderer’s death!”   
The dragon swiped with its front arm, its talons mere inches from Geralt’s face, then stood on its hind legs to spew another belly full of fire. The witcher went on the offensive this time, sliding feet first to dodge another swipe, rolling out of it while drawing his sword, and striking at the dragon’s scaly underbelly. The beast roared in surprise and took flight, chasing Geralt around the obelisk with a stream of flame as he dashed and whirled in a random evasive pattern. At the end of the fiery breath, he spun around and shouted at the dragon, which hovered awkwardly a dozen feet above the rooftop.  
“Saskia, stop! It’s me, Geralt!”  
“Liar! Murderer!” The voice replied in his head, painfully intense. “You killed her!”  
“I didn’t-“ Geralt began, before diving to the side. The dragon brought its full weight down on the surface of the obelisk, crushing the wooden supports under the stone-tiled floor. Wood, stone and a witcher went tumbling down the hollow interior of the square tower. Geralt cried out in pain as he landed first on his back, then his knee, then tumbling backward head over heels and sliding down half a flight of stairs, came to a stop with his shoulder breaking halfway through a wooden stair plank. He groaned, willing his aching body back into action. There was no time to recover. The dragon stuck its head down the open shaft, frantically scanning the rubble for signs of the witcher.  
“Where are you, murderer? Witch killer?” The voice beckoned. “I’ll kill you! I’ll burn you!”  
A ball of flame engulfed the space near the top of the tower, which Geralt had mercifully fallen below, and set the wooden stairs ablaze. For a moment, he considered escaping downward toward the ground, but he quickly abandoned the notion. Triss was likely still down there, along with other bystanders trapped by the stampeding crowd. He wouldn’t bring the destruction to them. With sword drawn, he waited for the flames to clear, then sprinted up the stairs like a bolt from a crossbow, surprising the dragon as he leapt out of the dark and struck it across the side of its face. The beast shrieked in pain and retracted its head, as blood fell in huge droplets on the witcher below. He pursued the reeling dragon upward and struck it again, this time gouging a three-foot tear in its webbed, fleshy wing. The beast flapped its wings awkwardly, nearly knocking Geralt back down the staircase with the sudden gust of wind they produced, and roared even louder, clutching the top of the broken tower with its hind leg talons. The witcher saw his opportunity, and took it, unleashing a roar of his own as he jumped from the top of the crumbling stone wall and thrust the tip of his sword into the dragon’s abdomen. The blade found an opening between bones, piercing through muscle and intestines all the way to the hilt. The force of the blow and the sudden shock of pain caused the beast to lose its balance, and both it and the witcher went somersaulting off the obelisk, speeding toward a fatal collision with the ground below. Just in time, the dragon regained its balance, lumbering upward with uneven strokes of its wings, and unwittingly took Geralt with it. He hung on tightly at it ascended toward the forested foothills to the north, searching in vain for a safe place to land. In no time, he was six stories high, watching in despair as the world whirred by below. The only way down was together.   
The dragon soon realized that Geralt was attached to the sword in its gut, and tried swatting him off. When that didn’t work, it attempted a barrel roll to loosen his grip. The maneuver actually produced the opposite result, providing Geralt the perfect opportunity to adjust his position. With perfect timing, he released the sword grip, drew his dagger, and plunged it to the side of the bony spine near the dragon’s neck. The blow struck a nerve, causing the injured wing to lock up, and sending the pair of them into a curving downward dive. The beast roared, lurched and writhed, but couldn’t recover from the loss of momentum, and fell with frightening speed toward the wooded slope below. Geralt waited until the last possible moment, leaping from the dragon before it struck the ground, and casting Quen to try and cushion his fall. Unfortunately, his calculations and timing were less accurate this time, and rather than landing with a roll on the grassy forest floor, he collided with a large sapling, snapping the four-inch trunk in half and blacking out before his limp body hit the ground.

———————————————————

The ashen-haired girl grits her teeth in determination, vaulting her bruised and scraped body back onto the balance beam with impressive agility. The witcher raises his eyebrows slightly. For a normal girl with minimal training, she is surprisingly athletic and sinewy. He doesn’t allow himself time to marvel. He has a responsibility. “Again!” He hears his own gravelly voice command. The spinning log descends again. He watches her pupils dilate in anticipation.  
“Roll, parry, sidestep, strike!” He yells for what feels like the hundredth time. She’s a split-second late starting her roll, but rebounds well with her parry. Her sidestep is perfect, and, whirling around with her ponytail fluttering behind her, she strikes true, spilling the leather pouch of pebbles to the ground.  
“Ha-Ha!” She shouts jubilantly, grinning ear to ear. Her green eyes search his face, desperate for approval. He knows he should remain stern and unemotional, as Vesimir did consistently for him, but a strange feeling disrupts his focus, so overwhelming and sudden that he has no mental countermeasure for it. Pride. A smile rises from deep within his gut, warming his insides all the way up to his face. Her eyes brighten, and he is filled with indescribable joy.  
“That’s my girl!” He says, arms still crossed. She hops down from the balance beam and throws her preteen arms around his waist. He’s startled, not quite sure how to respond, but soon finds his arms wrapped around her in return. “Well done, Ciri,” the gravelly voice says. “Now, do it again, only cleaner this time.”  
“…Ciri…”  
The name swirls round and round in his mind, only this time, images become more defined with each oscillation.   
A look of uncertainty in those trusting green eyes as he places his ward into the care of Mother Nenneke at Melitele’s temple.   
Battling his way across a bridge with a Nilfgaardian, a bard and a vampire.  
Wandering like a fish out of water in the opulent ballroom on Thanedd island.  
Making love to Yennefer on top of a stuffed unicorn which, though he loathed, he grew to tolerate, given its primary purpose.  
Plucking roses from an ancient elven ruin with Ciri, teaching her about the elves’ tragic fall from prominence.  
Memories rushed back in a torrent - vibrant, visceral, nearly tangible. He remembered them all - Cahir and Regis, Fringilla and the Duchess of Toussaint, Yennefer, Calanthe… Ciri. A renewed sense of purpose seized him. He had to wake up. There was lost time to make up for.

———————————————————

Geralt stumbled across the hillside, forcing his aching body to keep moving. He had the good fortune to find one vile of healing concoction intact after the crash, and ingested the vile-tasting liquid as he trudged onward toward the dragon. It was an easy path to follow - vegetation was bent outward in either direction along its crash trajectory, and the labored, gurgling moans of the wounded beast carried easily through the mountain air. He found the landing site quickly, and inspected the scene. The dragon lay with its hind legs on the ground and its upper body suspended slightly, held aloft by the trunk of an oak tree that had impaled the creature. It breathed shallow, spaced out breaths, still clinging to life, but utterly incapacitated.  
“Witcher? … … have you come to kill me?” The voice in his head asked, much more calmly than before. “It’s just as well. I’m dying. You may strike me down, I won’t resist. I… could not resist, even if I wanted.”  
He approached the scene, placing his hand gently on the dragon’s neck. “I don’t want to kill you Saskia,” he said quietly. “I never did. I only wanted to stop you.”  
“I wish you had,” she said remorsefully. “I cannot describe the shame I feel, Geralt… for what I’ve done. For what I tried to do.”  
“Don’t blame yourself,” he said. “Philippa cast a spell over you. You had no choice.”  
“Oh, but I did,” she replied, sagging her head even lower. “I knew the type of woman Philippa was. I knew she was ruthless. I thought myself above her corrupting influence, that I could rise to victory on her coattails… I thought that Upper Aedirn was worth the sullying of my morals.”  
“Síle’s dead, and Philippa will be soon. You’re free to change, to make things right.”  
“It’s too late for me, witcher. I am too far gone.”  
“Let me help you, Saskia.”  
“No. Please. Go and find your women. I know your heart yearns for them. As for me, I wish to die here in peace.”  
Geralt looked at the large puddles of crimson beneath Saskia’s body. “You’re not in peace.”  
“Please, Geralt. Things are as they must be. We cannot outrun fate. If I am to die here, I will die. You have more to accomplish today. Fate hasn’t finished with you in Loc Muinne.”  
Geralt considered her words for a moment. He was quite sure he didn’t want to face any more requirements of fate that day, but he knew she was right. He patted the scaly neck.  
“In that case, farewell, Saskia. If this is your end, then die with honor. I release you from your offenses.”  
“Would that it were so simple to find absolution. Nevertheless, thank you, witcher. Truly. May you rise to the challenge set before you.”

———————————————————

Loc Muinne was eerily silent when Geralt again made the arduous climb up the eastern wall in late afternoon. The smell of charred flesh and human blood was pungent, thickening the air like an oppressive haze over the ancient stones. As a result of the malodorous air, he didn’t notice the person waiting for him until he heard the gasp and patter of rapid footsteps approaching. Slender arms wrapped around him with the force of a breaking wave, clinching him tightly as he stood in the open-air hallway. He reached down, lacing his fingers through chestnut curls and held Triss’s head tightly against his chest. Neither spoke for a long time. There was no expression to capture the emotions of the moment. Instead, they held each other, grateful their fears hadn’t been realized.  
“When I saw the explosion…” she said at last, still tight against Geralt’s chest.  
“I know. Síle’s dead.”  
“What happened?”  
“Her portal collapsed, ripped her in two, right in front of me. And you wonder why I don’t like teleporting.”  
“What about Saskia?”  
“She’s… dying. I tried to save her, but-“  
“You had to defend yourself.”  
“She didn’t want saving. She’s overcome with remorse.”  
“… she trusted the wrong people. I, uh… know how that feels.”  
“Are you alright?” He asked, pulling her head away and inspecting her face. “Are you hurt?”  
“Nothing that won’t heal,” she said, pulling his hands away.   
“Gods, Geralt! Your fingers…”  
“I’ll be fine.”  
“Listen… it’s really not safe to be here. After the dragon left, Radovid sent in his ‘Knights of the Flaming Rose.’ They started grabbing mages, sorceresses, anyone who looked like a threat. I wanted to fight, but there were too many. I hid. It was… terrible. They dragged women off by their hair, cut off their hands so they couldn’t cast spells. The pretty ones were raped first, then they pulled them to the city square with ropes around their necks… and burned them alive.”  
“I knew he was upset about Philippa, but-“  
“The men got carried away. It was a mob. It was a bloodbath. The only reason I got out alive was because Letho rescued me.”  
“He what?” Geralt asked sharply.  
“He pulled me out of the crowd, Geralt. Took a knife in the back and just kept going. I told him I wouldn’t leave the city without you, asked him to bring me here. He did, then left without a word. He, uh… he left this for you…” She reached in her belt pocket and pulled out a small, folded paper. “I’m not suggesting… well, just… read it.”  
Geralt unfolded the letter, and read it silently.

Geralt,  
I think we’re both tired of running around.   
Come find me by the bonfire. I’ll be waiting until dark.

-Letho


	20. Justice and Mercy

Letho sat in the middle of the large city square, forearms resting on his wide-spread knees as he casually tossed and caught a small jewel repeatedly. Behind him, a pile of charred corpses still smoldered, piled ten feet high in what had once been a large, ornate fountain. The stench of burnt hair and entrails, which had been uncomfortable at the edge of town, was almost overwhelming at the source.

Geralt had to fight the urge to cover his mouth and nose as he approached the eastern door to the expansive, column-lined courtyard. He pushed on the heavy, twelve-foot tall wooden door without hesitation. This confrontation had to happen, and he wanted it over as soon as possible. Triss tried to convince him not to go, pleading with tears. “You’re in no condition to fight,” she said. “You’ve done enough for Temeria and for Vernon Roche. You don’t owe anybody anything.” She was right on both counts, but this wasn’t about what Geralt owed to anyone - it was about what Letho owed to him - an explanation. He insisted on speaking with the kingslayer, and on doing it alone.

Letho grinned slightly when the door’s rusted iron hinges creaked open, though he didn’t look up. His intuition told him the invitation had been accepted. Geralt walked briskly across the grass-infested stone floor, the clacking of his boot heels echoing off the marble walls in the disturbing silence of a city now populated by corpses.

“Took you a while,” the kingslayer said without looking up, speaking with his typical relaxed, rural accent.

“Mmhmm. What’s that you’re holding?” Geralt responded, eyeing the milky white polished stone in Letho’s hand.

“My final prank,” he answered, looking up and holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. “As you well know, sorceresses use these to channel energy. Well, Síle keeps her gem in her dress pocket, rather than around her neck. While she was sleeping, I took it, replaced with another that had a flaw - minute, but just large enough to distort things… like portals, for instance. The emperor’s magic theorists assured me the effect would be spectacular."

“They didn’t exaggerate,” Geralt replied plainly, still wearing bits of Síle on his jacket. “I got your letter. Gonna explain why you want to meet?”

Letho put the gem away in a pocket on his vest, inhaling end exhaling slowly, then slapping his palms on his knees and looking Geralt eye to eye. “You still a gwent-playing man?”

“Mmhmm.”

“There comes a point in every game when all the players need to show their cards. No more hidden motives, no more tricks, no more let-downs. I love that moment. But first… vodka?”

Geralt snorted in surprise, tilting his head a bit, then shrugging. “…I suppose my throat’s a little dry.”

Letho grinned widely. “In that case, let’s drink to old friendships.”

He picked up a dark brown bottle, uncorked it, and handed it to Geralt, who, sniffing it first, drank several shots’ worth before handing it back. Letho took a mouthful, swallowing it in one gulp, and closed his eyes for a moment to appreciate the burn and aftertaste. “Black ones can be real pricks sometimes, but they do have a discerning taste for liquor. I’m curious - did you recover your memory yet?”

“Not entirely. I’m missing one last piece… the part where I wound up in the hands of the Wild Hunt.”

Letho bobbed his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. “Makes sense. It was a hell of an ordeal.”

“Recount it for me.”

“… alright. You remember tracking the Wild Hunt together?”

“I do.”

“Remember Midinvaerne, the Hanged Man’s Tree?”

“No.”

“Those elves like their damned holidays. Got sloppy. We figured as much, that’s how we got the drop on them. You, me, Serrit and Auckes. Gotta admit, up until that point, I wasn’t sure about your theory that they were mortals, but wraiths don’t bleed, and we bled ‘em. A whole lot of ‘em. Problem is, they had superior numbers. We fought to a stalemate - that’s when their leader stepped up to talk. Asked us what we wanted. You said ‘Yennefer.’ You offered to trade your life for hers, and he accepted your offer without hesitation. They carried you off in chains, and that was the last I saw of you, until the monastery in La Valette. Figured you’d be dead. You’re a hard one to kill, White Wolf.”

“The Hanged Man’s Tree… I remember now. Yes. I remember.”

“Good. So, Geralt of Rivia, cards out on the table. Why did you come?”

“You owe me some explanations.”

“Let’s say I do.”

“For starters, why are _you_ still here? Why did you wait, why here?”

Letho sighed and shrugged. “I knew you wouldn’t give up. I knew you’d keep pursuing me. I’m tired of running, tired of hiding. Fact is, only you know the truth about me - well, you and a couple of folks whose word isn’t worth shit anymore. I never saw you as a foe, Wolf. I want to go my way, but if I have to fight you first, so be it.”

“Why should I let you live, after what you did?” Geralt asked, staring unflinchingly into Letho’s witcher eyes.

“Remember how we first met?”

“Yeah. Slizzard stabbed you through the gut. I saved your life. Couldn’t think of a nicer way to pay me back?”  
Letho frowned. “Frankly, I couldn’t. I mean, taking care of another man’s woman is noble enough, but… Yennefer? I can’t fathom what you saw in her, but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste…

“You cared for Yennefer?”

“Well, _somebody_ had to. When the Wild Hunt released her, she was all kinds of messed up - feverish for days, delirious, in agony. We thought that was it - she was on her way out. Somehow, she recovered, but even then, she was disoriented. Amnesia, like you.”

Geralt felt the confluence of guilt, hope and longing well up inside him. He pressed the emotions back down as quickly as they appeared. There was no time for that sort of thing - at least, not yet.

“What then?” He asked, as soberly as if he were collecting background information for a contract.

“Well, the woman turned out to be quite the character. Throwing temper tantrums, trying to seduce Auckes, trying to drive a wedge between us. Keeping her around wasn’t easy, but after you so nobly sacrificed yourself, we thought it’d be dumb to just leave her somewhere. She wouldn’t have survived a week on her own. The whims and vigor of a duchess, but she was just a sorceress with no memory. And a damn irritating one, at that. We were in the heart of the Empire, and as I’m sure you know, Geralt, in Nilfgaard mages who behave like that either drop their bad habits quickly or are drawn and quarter by horses in the middle of Victory Square.”

“So I heard.”

“So we set out, wandered through the provinces. Everywhere we went, she got into trouble and we pulled her out. And then one day they captured us - the Imperial secret police. Me, Auckes, Serrit and Yennefer. We were separated. They questioned us, long and thoroughly, but it was uneventful, there was no violence. That’s how I met Vattier de Ridaux, and a couple of weeks later, the Emperor himself. Me - a simple witcher.”

“Congratulations,” Geralt said dryly. “What happened to Yennefer?”

Letho shrugged his shoulders, reaching over and taking another swig from the bottle. “I dunno. Never saw her again. The Emperor offered me a mission in the Northern Kingdoms. As for Yennefer, I had the feeling she was someone important to Emhyr. They recognized her, treated her like a valuable asset. Far as I can tell, they learned of the Lodge from her, though whether it was willingly or not, I couldn’t say. They may look civilized on the outside, but behind closed doors… well, those imperial spooks have their ways. Last I heard, she was at the palace under close supervision. The rest of us went off to slay the kings of the north, and that’s where my knowledge ends.

“So she’s in the empire now?”

“She was when I left. Satisfied?”

“No,” Geralt replied flatly, folding his arms. “How did a witcher agree to kill humans for money? You were taught better than that.”

“It wasn’t a farmer offering a contract, Geralt. One does not simply refuse The White Flame Dancing On the Graves of His Foes.”

Geralt pressed his lips together tightly in disapproval. “What was your price?”

“Come on, Geralt - I thought you knew me better. The job paid well in gold, sure, but it was more than that. He promised to rebuild the school of the Viper. The rest of us out there aren’t so lucky to have a hideout like Kaer Morhen to run home to. With Serrit and Auckes gone, there are only 2 other witchers left from my School. Haven’t seen them for years. Now, they can come out of hiding. They can come home.”

“So Emhyr wanted the all northern kings dead. Why?”

“Wouldn’t every monarch wish for the death of his rivals?”

“They don’t usually assassinate rulers they’ve worked out a tenuous armistice with.”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with his motives, but I picked up on enough. Way I see it, it wasn’t really about them, so much as it was about spreading chaos. The mission was simple - remove crowned heads, blame the sorceress, soften up the north for invasion.”

“Invasion?”

“What - didn’t any of the sorceresses tell you? As we speak, there’s an army of Black Ones thirty thousand strong, about to cross the Yaruga. War’s coming. _Again_. And you know what’s incredible? We could not have imagined more fertile soil for chaos. No matter who’s on the throne, the northern monarchs accuse one another, pursue their ‘god-given rights,’ seek vengeance and are constantly at each others' throats. The north resembles a whorehouse on fire, as your friend Dandelion would say.”

“Why blame the Lodge?”

“You guess is as good as mine, brother. I was just following orders. Secret society or not, it wasn’t that hard to track down Síle de Tansarville. She never exactly kept a low profile. I stayed close to her, killed a few beasts for her, whined about how unhappy I was, how unfair the world was - so much, in fact, that I actually got her gander up a few times. At first, she was suspicious, but sooner or later, everyone starts treating me like a big oaf. I mean, I can’t change how I look.

“I made sure a few potentially trustworthy witnesses saw us together, could link us… security, in case I was captured. I also prepared to assassinate the king of Kovir. He was actually supposed to be the first victim. But before I could do the deed, Síle asked me to slay Demavend. I couldn’t believe my luck. Here, I’d been trying to figure out how to frame Síle, and now all I needed was to carry out the orders and follow through.”

“When did she switch from hiring you to trying to kill you?”

“Early on. The Lodge panicked when I killed Foltest. That wasn’t their plan - he was one of the few kings who actually listened to his advisors. But, a job’s a job. Unfortunately, it got a lot harder to do once people were onto me. Between those scheming hags, Roche, Iorveth’s squirrels and you… let’s just say life has been unpleasant lately.”

“And you expect to just walk away from it?”

“I do. The Lodge is disbanded, Iorveth’s too busy worshiping the ground Saskia walks on, and Roche has bigger problems to deal with. Thirty thousand of them, to be precise. The only obstacle standing in my way is you.”

“Where would you go? Roche hasn’t forgotten, you know.”

“Nazair. There’s a plot of land along the shore of Lake Muredach where a castle used to stand. Not much more than a foundation left, but it’s a start. I’ll rebuild the School of the Viper, maybe even train up some new witchers. We _are_ a dying breed, after all. It’d be a shame for one of us to bleed out in this god-forsaken dump.” Letho took one last sip from the bottle, and tossed it onto the pile of bodies behind him. “Look at you, Wolf. Your fingers are burned to hell, you limped in here like an old man, and those ribs… you just won’t let them heal. You’re a mess. And me? Well, I’ve been whacked over the head, cut, bruised, and literally stabbed in the back. All things being equal, I’d rather not kill you. I actually kinda like you. But if we’re gonna do this, then let’s get it over with. I’m tired.”

Justice, as so often was the case, was a complicated matter. After all, who was really to blame - the emperor who ordered the murders, the witcher who acted as his arm extended, or the sorceresses who endorsed regicide for similarly self-serving reason? Perhaps all of them. Geralt breathed in deeply through his nose, holding the breath for a long moment before releasing it slowly.

“I’m tired too.”


	21. Campfire and Catharsis

Triss Merigold sat in silence, watching the orange glow of a small campfire cast flickering shadows on the rocky, barren soil around her. The wind had picked up after dusk, whisking though the mountain pass in intermittent gusts, swaying the dancing flames in a mesmerizing assortment of dips and turns. She glanced up through auburn wisps of hair at the face across from her, hoping to see some sign of change, some crack in his steely facade… anger, grief, exhaustion… anything. There was nothing. The weathered face of the witcher remained as it had for hours. Stoic. Emotionless. Unreadable.

Triss was accustomed to her companion’s taciturn tendencies. Geralt was a man of few words; it wasn’t unusual for him to avoid conversation, but this… this was different. The Witcher had uttered precisely seven words in nearly as many hours since the two of them left the smoldering ruins of Loc Muinne. “We should make camp.” “Getting more firewood.” She’d memorized them. Beyond the usual grunts, sighs and “Hmmm’s,” those were the only words the weary warrior uttered. Yes, Triss was accustomed to quiet, but as the hours accumulated, the silence became increasingly heavy, as if she had escaped a harrowing fight for her life only to trade the intense pressure of peril for the insidious stranglehold of dread.

Geralt was upset. She knew that much, though she was uncertain why. She had no idea whether he’d killed Letho in the square or released him. She didn’t even know whether the kingslayer was there at all.

 _If I’d killed a former friend, I’d be somber, too,_ Triss reasoned to herself, feeling a pang of sadness as her mind replayed the deaths of Assire van Anahid and Síle de Tansarville. There had certainly been plenty of death, and that would certainly explain Geralt’s mood… but then again, it may have had more to do with her, which inspired dread and worry in the pit of her stomach.

Triss’s last conversation of note with Geralt hadn’t ended well - she confessed to hiding her involvement in the Lodge of Sorceresses from him, tried to convince him she could still be trusted - but that was in a cave, and she was only halfway salient at the time. They agreed to table the rest of the discussion for another, safer date. The solitary campfire on the mountainside seemed to fit the description, but after hours of waiting, the only sound to be heard was the arrhythmic crackling of the burning wood. The specter of that impending follow-up hung in the air like a noxious fog, and Triss was suffocating in it. She’d promised Geralt (and herself) months ago that she’d respect his privacy and stop reading his thoughts, which was no small sacrifice. To an expert sorceress, mind-reading came as naturally to conversation as shoulder shrugs and eyebrow raises. To her credit, she’d held to that pledge diligently. After all, what was a relationship without mutual respect and sacrifice? As the silence deepened, though, the urge to take just a peek was swelling inside her, pressing on her will like an itch in her mind. _Just one glimpse_ , Triss told herself. _Just to put me out of my misery. Maybe he won’t notice_ …

She knew he’d notice. Witchers are far more perceptive of magical auras than ordinary men. She had to try, though. Without stirring an inch, the sorceress closed her eyes and reached out with her mind. Geralt exhaled sharply through his nose, arms crossed tightly. He was resisting. She relented for a moment, opening her eyes to search his face. Unchanging as ever. Triss steeled her resolve and tried again. She could probe harder than he could defend, and they both knew it. She closed her eyes and pushed more urgently this time. The Witcher’s medallion jingled against its chain, resonating with the magical energy as she pressed through the fog and looked into his mind. In an instant, she saw his thoughts - and escaped from the image just as quickly. A cold pit opened inside her, nearly stealing her breath away. Raven-black locks. Piercing violet eyes, and a harsh expression of blame and condemnation.

The silence wasn’t about the Lodge, or the massacre in Loc Muinne, or the duel with his friend-turned-enemy, Letho. It was about Yennefer.

“Triss-“ He exhaled, slowly, with a distinct nuance of warning in his tone.

Triss gasped unwittingly, trying urgently to purge the stern image of her friend from her mind - without success. Those violet eyes burned like hot irons in her soul, as waves of guilt and panic rushed over her.

“You remember…” she said in astonishment, more to herself than to Geralt.

“Don’t,” he said stroking his forehead, wishing desperately to avoid the emotional discourse that was about to unfurl. There was a pleading in his tone this time, as though he knew it was inevitable. He was right.

“It’s back? … Your memory-“

“Yes,” he cut her off with a heavy sigh. “Everything. I remember _everything_.”

“Oh.”

The heavy silence went from unpleasant to unbearable.

“Geralt, please… _talk_ to me. Please-“

“What do you want me to say?” He replied gruffly, face still resting in his hand.

“Anything! I get it. You’re angry, okay? So, fire away. Yell, scream, whatever you have to do, just… just say _something_.”

“Fine,” he said coldly, looking her squarely in the eyes. “You wanna talk? Let’s talk. You lied to me, Triss.”

“Geralt, listen…” She rebutted, trying to hide the quivering in her lips, “The Lodge isn’t the kind of-“

“It’s not just the Lodge,” he cut in. “The plots, the assassinations… Síle, Yennefer, Ciri… you _lied_ , Triss. For months.”

“I did no such thing,” she answered firmly. “I admit, I kept some things to myself, and I should have been more transparent… but I never lied to you.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not,” she said, gritting her teeth as anger joined the fear in her mind.

“It is to me,” Geralt fired back, cold as ice. She’d seen that look in his eyes before. Hard. Stern. Menacing. She’d seen it before, but never pointed at her. It wounded her. Scared her. He truly was angry. At _her_.

Triss searched for the right words, for an explanation that would calm things down. She came up with nothing. Geralt continued.

“Six months, Triss,” he said, standing as his tone sharpened further. “Yen’s been out there for _six months_. For all I know, she’s been chained up, raped, tortured…” he gritted his teeth, visibly seething, “alone at the mercy of Nilfgaard’s interrogators… all while you kept me under your silk sheets in Vizima.”

Triss’s crystal blue eyes widened incredulously. “That’s not fair!” She fired back, standing defiantly and closing the space between them. “I had no idea that Yen was a prisoner. I had no idea she was even _alive_! By the gods, Geralt! Do you really think I’d turn my back on her? Do you think that little of me?”

He leaned in, eyes narrowed. “I think you’d do a lot to have me to yourself.”

She’d had enough. Triss slapped him in the face, angry tears starting to spill over onto her cheeks. He didn’t budge. “You arrogant ass!” She hissed. “How dare you say that to me! I love Yen. She was my best friend long before she was your… _whatever_ she is to you. If I had any indication of where she was, anything to go on at all, I would’ve moved heaven and earth to find her. But Geralt, _I didn’t know_. Don’t you understand? I didn’t know, and neither did you. Don’t you _dare_ blame this on me.”

“You sure as hell could’ve tried, Triss,” he said, annoyingly calm. “You never even mentioned her name.”

She huffed and pursed her lips, eyes darting back and forth, as she seethed. “Did it ever occur to you that nobody else did, either?” She roared back, her voice echoing through the rocky mountainside. “Vesimir, Eskel, Lambert… we all knew Yennefer, Geralt. It wasn’t just me.”

“So you _all_ conspired to hide my past from me. Why?” Something changed in his golden eyes. Accusation was replaced with the look of betrayal, of genuine searching.

“Because we care about you!” She blurted out, trembling from the emotions fighting for supremacy in her body. Her tone shifted as the tears continued, less angry and more vulnerable. “You… you were nearly dead when you just _appeared_ outside Kaer Morhen. I nursed you back to life, and… and it wasn’t the first time, as you well know now. We talked about it, Geralt, while you hung onto life. People who know you. People who _love_ you. We knew you’d rush off as soon as you could walk, chasing what we all thought would be a ghost, and… and you’d get yourself killed. We couldn’t…” She trailed off, quieting down and reaching out for his hand. “ _I_ … couldn’t let you go. Not after we’d just gotten you back.” Her watery eyes searched his as she struggled for the right words to say. “I was there when you died… in that riot… or, nearly died. And you know what? A part of me died that day. I wept for you both. I wept for days. And… to see you again… alive? It was selfish. You’re right, it… was selfish, I know, but Geralt, I couldn’t… I just couldn’t risk it.”

Triss grasped his hand. He didn’t hold hers in return, but he didn’t pull away. The witcher was silent for a moment.

“It wasn’t your decision to make,” he said, the harsh edge gone from his voice.

The tears came more liberally, as anger subsided and guilt took the forefront in Triss’s mind. She lowered her eyes.

“You’re right,” she said meekly, “and… I’m sorry. For the Lodge, for Yen, for Ciri… I’m so sorry…” her tears crescendoed into sobs as the truth sank in. Yennefer had been alive and in need, and maybe… just maybe she could have been found, had it not been for Triss’s fear of losing the only man she’d ever truly loved.

There were no words for en excruciatingly long time, but eventually Geralt broke the silence, a hint of tenderness in his soft baritone.

“What’s done is done.” Triss looked up to see his eyes, finally warm again. “But I can’t waste one more day, Triss. I have to find her. Even in Nilfgaard. I’ll find her… or I’ll die trying.”

“I know,” she answered, looking down again, hopeful that the worst of the conversation was past her. “And I’m going with you.”

“No you’re not,” he replied firmly.

“Yes…I am!” She said with sudden intensity in her eyes.

“Triss-“

“I can help,” she insisted. “You know it. We’ll stand a better chance together.”

“I need to do it on my own,” he countered methodically.

“Please, Geralt… give me a chance to make things right. I’ll help you find her, help you rescue her, and I _swear_ …” Triss paused, reining in her emotions before they ran away with her again, “when we find her, if you want to be with her, I…”

“Triss, listen…”

“I won’t… stand in your way,” she continued, forcing a pained smile.

The look on her face disarmed Geralt more than he expected. A tinge of guilt stung him as he studied the bruises and cuts, still fresh from her own trials at the hands of the Nilgaardian secret service. He knew she’d go to the ends of the earth for him, that she wouldn’t stop short of giving her life, if it came to that. And that’s why he couldn’t allow her to join him.

“…it’s late,” he said after an uncomfortable pause. “We’re both exhausted. Let’s get some sleep. Things’ll be clearer in the morning.”

“Take me with you,” she said again, unwilling to relent. “Promise me.”

“I’ll put another log on the fire,” he replied, having neither the heart nor the energy to keep saying “no.”

The flames subsided momentarily as another tree limb thudded onto the bed of coals, gradually returning with hisses and crackles as the branch succumbed to the heat. Triss laid on her side, facing the fire. Geralt eased himself down with a grimace and rested on his back, opposite her. Before long, the wind picked up again, rustling the sorceress’s clothes with dry, frigid air. She tried to ignore it, but it cut through, chilling her to the bone. She could warm herself with magic - she knew the spell well. Tired as she was, she could cast it… but she had a different idea.

“Geralt?” She said softly, hoping he wasn’t already asleep.

“Yes?” He answered after a moment.

“It’s so cold. Would you… could… you lie next to me?” Triss’s voice was awkwardly hesitant. She felt foolish for asking, certain he would see her true motives. She could sense the change, the sudden shift when Yennefer returned to Geralt’s memory in full, vibrant color. She knew that this season with her lover may be at an end, and as shameless as it felt, she was desperate to feel his closeness just one last time, to cherish whatever interaction she could get. “I’m not… asking for anything more,” she continued, blushing despite the cold, “just…”

He turned to look at her. The distrust hadn’t changed. Geralt would forgive her in time - he knew that - but he was still angry. Initially, his thought was to stoke the fire and tell her to cozy up to it, but when he saw her face, her pleading eyes and shivering lips, the anger melted. He had a feeling the request was about more than staying warm, but despite everything, Triss was dear to his heart. He couldn’t stand to see her that way. Without a word, he rose up, circled the fire and laid his body down next to hers. She nestled into him, shuddering strongly before they both settled on the unforgiving ground. Her nearness was soothing - he was immediately thankful for the invitation.

Geralt breathed in slowly and deeply, taking in the scent of Triss’s beautiful chestnut locks. Despite all she had been through over the past few days, the notes of cinnamon, bright bergamot and warm honey still emanated strongly - at least, to a witcher’s senses. He drew the sweet fragrance in, bringing with it memories of a simpler time. A time before child surprises, before endless wars, before the Wild Hunt. A winter in Kaer Morhen when he fell asleep peacefully every night, treated to those comforting scents. The flashbacks grew stronger as Geralt began to drift off to sleep, and for a moment, he had a powerful desire to return to those days, if only in a dream… but just before slumber took him, he had an epiphany - identical to the one that marked the end of that wistful winter. Triss smelled delicious - like family, like home - but she did not smell like lilac and gooseberries.

Triss could feel the slowing cadence of breaths as Geralt fell asleep next to her, drifting off in a matter of minutes. _Good for you, Geralt_ , she thought, rolling her eyes as she stared blankly into the fire. _Doubt I’ll be joining you anytime soon_. Triss’s body was sore and weary, but her mind was still racing. She replayed the conversation over and over in her head, shuddering at the memory of his menacing glare, wincing at the sound of her hand striking his unflinching face. She knew his reflexes well - he could’ve stopped her had he wanted to. He knew he’d overstepped the line with that comment, and in spite of her aggression, he’d remained calm. _I’ll apologize in the morning_ , she reasoned, envisioning a wholly different conversation to come once the sun was up. _When we’re both less emotional. I’ll convince him that he needs my help. I’ll chain myself to him if I have to, I just_ …

Her thoughts shifted abruptly as she felt his arm wrap around her. An unexpected rush of tingling comfort swept over her. He was fast asleep, she knew that, but she didn’t mind it. She placed her arm over his, clutching his tightly between her breasts, and sighed.

“Oh, Geralt,” she whispered. “Please… please don’t leave me.”

His embrace soothed her senses, and soon her mind gave way to the sleep that her body yearned for.

———————————————————

Triss’s vision was blurred as she awoke groggily, moaning as she rolled off of her now-aching hip. She could smell Geralt’s endearing-yet-pungent aroma next to her, but somehow she was still cold. With effort, she forced her eyes open, squinting in the blinding light of a sun that was far higher in the sky than daybreak.

And then her heart sunk. Geralt wasn’t there.

Immediately her pulse started racing, as she pulled Geralt’s jacket off of her with quivering hands. _No… no, no, no, no,_ she pleaded mentally as she sprang up, desperately searching the horizon. There was no sign of him. _Witchers wake before dawn_ , she reasoned as her breath quickened, _and it’s… damnit! It’s nearer to noon than to dawn._ Any shred of hope remaining escaped when her eyes landed on a folded note laid with care next to the fire.

_Need to do this alone. Knew you wouldn’t take “no” for an answer._

_Try to understand._

Her eyes darted back and forth across the parchment, searching through the blur of tears that began to accumulate.

“You selfish… whoreson!” She blurted out. “You coward!” Her fury quickly gave way to heartache, as the realization set in. He was gone. Gone without a word. Just like at Kaer Morhen. The tears came, and this time, there was no one to keep up appearances for. She wept loudly, as the memory of his sleeping embrace now jeered at her agonizingly, like the rung of a ladder that was just out of reach.

 _He’s made his choice_ , she thought bitterly, _again. Damnit, Geralt! He’ll go right back to her cold embrace, to her condescending words and emasculating control. And they’ll make love passionately… and the next morning be back to clawing each other’s eyes out. All because of that damned djinn. Oh, Geralt! Why did you have to make that wish?_ The sorceress cried and cursed… and then she became furious again. _Pull yourself together, little one!_ Her thoughts chided. _You’re no schoolgirl anymore. Stop feeling sorry for yourself!_ She rose to her feet, squaring her jaw and speaking aloud.

“I’m a surviver of Sodden Hill. I call down hailstones and bend flames. I have no need of the Lodge… or a lover… I am _Triss Merigold_ , damnit! I’ll go to Novigrad… where it’s safe… I will start over and leave all… _this_ behind.”

She crumpled the note in her hand, extending her arm over the coals which still glowed faintly. She held it there for some time, but she couldn’t release it. With a deep sigh, she flattened it out, carefully folding it and placing it in the pouch on her belt. Then she stamped out the fire, gathered her things, and set off toward Novigrad with head held high.


End file.
